"I shall go on shining as a brilliantly meaningless figure in a meaningless world." ~F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned
It is said
That there is
No meaning
To anything
But what
We give it.
My life means
Nothing…
It goes.
I breathe.
I love.
I live.
I am who
I am.
I do what
I do.
My hands move
And Brilliant colors
Are crushed
Against unyielding
Pavement…
And unknowingly
I surrender to it
And art is made
By some
Meaningless means.
I type a number
I wait.
I see a quote
And my hands
Move
By some
Unknown process
That has been named
Inspiration.
Words spill out
And a poem
Is born.
To live some
Meaningless life
That will live
Far beyond mine.
More colors
Are pulled out
Through body paint
Covering a canvas
Of humanity
A life
A moment
I have no idea
What I am doing
I stare.
I wait.
Pushing and
Trying are useless.
I see.
I grab brushes
And capture
What was a
Momentary flash
In the brain pan…
I hold love in my mind
I hold her worthiness
I hold that he is enough
And paint that
On them…
I cannot tell
You what it means
To the people
Who see my chalk art
Or to the ones who walk on it
Because they weren't really
Looking.
I cannot say
What my poetry means
To anyone who
Reads it
Because I am not there
In their heads,
And what it means
To them,
Unless they tell me.
I cannot convey
What it means
To the person I body paint
That they are
My canvas
And what it
Was like for
Them…
Sometimes they cry
Sometimes they relax
And zone out
Sometimes
They thank
Me.
I know I could
No sooner
Stop doing these
Things
Than I could
Stop my breathing
For any extended
Period of time.
But what does it
Mean?
I have no idea…
Perhaps history
Can say such a thing
Like piecing a mystery
Together…
But the colors are bold
The words are deep
And these things
Are brilliant
And bright
In the world…
Who knows
What it all means…
I just know
I have to keep
Doing it.
