Persona Poem (Mona Lisa)

Behind my glass case
And rope protectors
Viewers of many nationalities
Stand shoulder to shoulder;
Push and shove in their attempt
To gaze upon my rounded
Painted face. Cell phones and cameras
Rise to record the moments the onlookers
Looked deeply into my eyes.

Behind closed doors, curators
Sweat over my painter’s mistakes
As my wrinkles peel
Off my ill-prepared back.
They are my doctors and nurses—
They patch me up when the need arises
So tourists can lift their cameras
To capture their own Mona Lisa.

To the Untitled Works…of Mr. Pollock?

Waiting for the mood and blank canvas
To lead the hand and body

As globs of paint of red, teal, black, gold and others
Are spread across the plain surface.

It is mere chance as to
What shapes emerge.

Splatters guided by gravity
And the flick of the wrist.

Some sand to add the texture
Of a roughened beard.

Several nails, old house paint;
All to give some character

To the taped down canvas
Spread upon the bare garage floor

Musical Art

Pieces of paper used to direct the desperate
Not fooled by pretty words, aware of true intentions:
Puppeteer and marionette relationship
With liquor and powder to stupor the mind,
While vampires suck artists dry
And steal before their eyes.
If latent talent is recognized
Refusal will be the path I take.

Mass production is not art
Mass production leads to mindless followers
Unable to think on their own;
I’m not willing to participate in
Mind numbing sameness–
Much rather stand alone
Then add one more product
Just like the rest on the airwaves
And in aisles found in every super store.