Good artists borrow
Great artists steal
A Picasso quote
I look in the mirror
I see myself
And yet I paint
With Picasso strokes
Picasso lines
Picasso designs
Am I possessed
By Picasso?
Do I have to dress
Like Picasso?
Evolution
Survival of the fittest
Am I only a part of the
Picasso food chain?
Does Picasso reach out,
A brush in hand,
Stroking a canvass
‘Til I understand?
Am I an emissary,
A foible for his art?
Do I face stagnation?
Do I play a part?
But no small parts
Only small actors
I retrace my steps
I look again in the mirror
I find my reality
Picasso is dead
And I live on

Picasso stood at the window looking at the shape of things to come.
A rage was building is his belly. Sharp remarks he made to his lover
Were eating at his gut.  She was useless to him now.
Stained by tears, she could not see him now. She would never understand him.
He was doing her a favor by leaving her.
Tomorrow her mother would come to collect her.
It would be a good day to visit his printer, he thought.
One woman crying and another screaming at him would be too much.

Late that night he came to her door and stood outside listening.
He felt like walking in and wordlessly taking her.
He knew she would submit.  But then, the act would make him soft.
Could he have her and still throw her out the next day?
He stood listening and thought.
Picasso, yes.  Picasso could do this and would do this.

But the moment passed.
The image of a bull folded on the arena floor bleeding out.
His face was that bull’s face.
In celebration of this tragedy he would stay
Locked away in his studio painting his sins
Without remorse and in willful defiance.

The next day the mother came.
He met her in the driveway.  He kissed her
And pressed her to him.
“You sent me a child” he said.
“Take her away and then return alone.”

it's your turn.
go.
"in muddy footprints i see faces
that Picasso would have drawn,
in ***** floors and
unwashed dishes lay the lies
and promises i told myself
in backwards orders,
with misplaced eyes,
glasses,
mouths.
and now, my turn's arrived,
and i've nothing to confess!
point taken.
i don't know what it is.
it's Picasso in my mind.
Van Gogh: self-portrait.
missing parts,
misplaced parts,
misinterpretation of an education
too-well carried out.
dirt piles up and i play,
a little girl amused,
like when i learned about
maps,
navigation,
topography in sandboxes.
i was so much older than a little girl and yet i still belong in sandboxes!
there i can pretend to be
Picasso,
there i can call this
'art.'
and i can't call it art anywhere else
because it's not,
it's not artistic in the real world,
and there,
there exists no ideal.
only confusion.
but of another sort-
not the kid described on these pages.
my pages.
my turn?
i've not much to say, not
that would mean anything to you, anyway.
in cloudy visions i see
smoke
that Picasso could have
breathed,
in,
out,
breath.
in,
out,
smoke.
his smoke must have been
so full of art!
oh!
what is art!"
you'd get along here, just fine,
you're friendly enough,
i can tell.
"so it's my turn?
i wouldn't get along
anywhere, no,
i wouldn't last a day
without him,
but that's a different life.
a life so far away,
built like castles in sandboxes
on playgrounds that wish they were
the beach,
wish to hear the ocean,
wish to feel the waves,
and. yet.
that is art,
is it not?
beauty in the wishes
of personified concepts.
the life that lives in
another time,
(where do i belong?) but
i don't remember and
i
am so tired
of 'i'!
oh. no.
in shattered windows i see
accidents,
injuries,
deaths.
but some of it is beautiful.
you must think i'm
sick,
sadistic,
too influenced by art.
i assure you i won't cut off my ear but it's
very possible i'll dream in
figures
misaligned.
missing eyebrows,
misplaced lashes.
bifocals keep me from speaking clearly,
fogged with every exhalation of
smoke:
1920's Hollywood actresses,
mascara too thick,
lipstick too red,
cancer sticks between slender fingers.
tap.
ashes fall.
in ashes on linoleum floors,
flourescent lighting,
i see-
never mind.
you'll think i'm more dangerously sadistic
than is safe,
at this point.
i don't see anything at all,
no linoleum, non flourescents
to reflect your muddy footprints,
no Picasso faces this time around.
in muddy footprints i see...
faces misaligned, i see...
wheels in overdrive.
and you say i'll get along there,
'just fine'!
go.
it's your turn.
i hope i haven't scared you away.
there's not much time
before another day."