If parking lots aren't art, they are at least a gallery,
cars as the masterpieces which we gawk at, pretending
to be smart -- "ah, a famous Lamborghini piece."
And if that still isn't art, then call it something else -- a form of beauty beyond our comprehension, made by no one and everyone in this town.
Those construction workers who made this are ghostly sculptors of asphalt.
The yellow lines on the road are delicate brushstrokes, laid down by the most careful of craftsmen.
One day this parking lot will turn to dust,
and that is where the beauty comes from.

explain to me why destruction is considered an art?
if i were you, i’d find a way to fight it.
as if destruction was an abstraction to describe to one’s self in a physical installation for all to see in a rarely visited gallery
we lock the doors because we are ashamed of the critics marking and making spiteful points as they leave red marks all over the walls
almost as if the surfaces were like a test paper without any attempt of answering or the tear and wear of the skin you bare

it was always war that we wouldn't label with a numeral to go down in the big books. instead, we whispered it under the sheets. we posted our thoughts on anonymous accounts that go hand in hand with a little lock sign in the corner. we used thunder in our words knowing that reaction that resulted resembled lightning.

as if a tattered canvas could make up for your bruised and battered soul

here’s my advice ; leave the doors unlocked just for a day, you might be surprised at what you find

we used
to be
tourists
in our
own city
we would
go to the
art gallery
and whisper about
impressionism
you would
hold my hand
as we walked
through gift shops
we would laugh
at over crowded
hiking
trails
everything
was lovely
we desired
to see
new things
in the old
we loved
each other
so well

loving him is poetry
and kissing him is art.

i'm used to being the creator
but being created from the affection
in his hands
and sculpted from intimacy
is a feeling like no other--
he doesn't just look, he sees me
every stray brush stroke
every drawn line
every brilliant color,
down to my skeleton,
he strips me of pretense and glows
with acceptance.

i am a bared soul,
battered and bruised,
shaken and scarred,
but even so--

i'm something beautiful in a gaze
like that.

She crept in through my window sill,
As fair as autumn moonlight, and as sleek as silver silk,
Her eyes they shone like summer rain,
And void they did, of all my pain,
The ruby of her lips, rivaled the roses of the morn,
And the beauty of her face, rivaled the coming of the dawn,
She crept in through my window sill, nothing she did take,
She crept in through my window sill, and my heart she did break.