just as I cannot raise the sun

I would like to start with what art is,

but it is easier to say what art is not.

art is not asthetic

art is not recreating what is created,

art is not a photograph, in so much as you do not have a vision too,

but art is something:

a tear in the tarp that being born blocks the sky,

art is found fabric (with its own history) and you sew in your purpose,

the few crumble lessons you've picked up

on the trail to a witch's house

or the father's house

and let the twitches turn the path.

let the boulders block the rushing

white topped water as it makes its way home,

(and lift the soil as you go)

knowing only that home is true

and taking with it some few small truths:

that gravity gives and liquid property gives,

but having no clue to the vastness of

the ocean or even that it may be vast

but only that it is true. so it is with art,

you may not know what you are scratching

with your led into that dead-ironed tree,

but put into it what is true and

lay it on the alter of what is true,

knowing not what is wholly true

but perhaps the feeling of gravity's old bone pull

and liquid's cool shape-shifting window song,

and the soil you carried as you tumbled down

will feed the life of the ocean,

a place you never knew had life at all.