The Artist

The Artist sits all day in his easy chair
and dreams of what life is like
Then he goes out and buys himself
an expensive weapon
And begins to attack society
he rages against lunatics and Freemasons
he bullies religious and tears apart angels
he takes old rags and burns holes in them
he accesses hidden sources
and teases recognition out of his onlookers
Hey! Ya! it’s me, he says
Ya! You! You’ve got eyes in you head – See!
he begs for a meal
and turns it into a healing implement
he gives away his dinner
to the poor of spirit
he rebels against authoritarian tactics
knowing full well the power of constraint

His weapons are paints and thoughts
his elbows are made of iron to crawl on
the avenues of his departure
are as vain as a flamboyant magazine
the nasty afternoon is full of empty air
where he’ll burn his hair with gasoline
in mid-traffic to get across
an ecological point

The artist sits all day,
and spins his thread of unsound thoughts
and nobody hears
as the worms begin to crawl over dead bodies
the artist with his alarm bell
with his whistle and milk thistle
begins to pull at the needle of drunkenness

But it is always too late by then,
for by the time you hear,
the earth is sinking
or the water will cover your head
and fire surround your bed

at this point the artist has a good laugh
because now you have heard him
and now you’re going to die
and he laughs so hard he cries
and as you sink into the quicksand
you know he’s laughing at you

And he goes back to his palette
and begins printing the alphabet on it
in plain black letters

and you think, Now?
but he just goes on painting them
as your head slips beneath the sand.

Rudolf Penner © 2001