The brittle blocks,

Seemed alien first,

Until you pulled them from the box,

Rubbed them on and smeared them in.

With some care and consideration,

And some practice and precision,

Whatever you’re working on,

Will look fuzzy and faded in.

The color binds to the blank space,

In whatever shape you’ve traced,

Wherever it’s been placed.

The mark of a good artist,

Is not the figure on the paper,

But the dark marks on their fingertips,

And passion that sometimes tapers,

But never disappears.

Keep fingerpainting,

But keep from scribble-sniveling,

How easy it is to make drivel,

How easy it was to be Picasso,

Or Van Gogh,

Or Michelangelo,

When you were little.

Oil Slick


Matte black and monochrome,

Glassy, placid patch,

In the interplay,

Of the moonlight,

There’s a swirling spectre,

A rainbow in the asphalt.

The oil pan,

Is trying its hand,

At abstract expressionism.

The slow drip isn’t quite random,

And easier to understand,

Than the grand hand of man,

But even without command,

It’d be too harsh to say it’s bland.

My car may be,

A little bit pretentious,

But it’s not just artist-artifice,

I believe in it.