Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Chuck Close

feels like a prison,
some overcast days,
cell to cell to cell,
lunch break and a short workout in the yard,
keep my defenses up,
no eye contact,
home is where I lock the bars closed again,
I cut the dreary, drizzling silence,
with beats from the Shaolin slums,
shatter the illusion of ego,
scatter the pieces across a grid,
each a small painting,
only left disoriented,
and unhinged,
if you don't step back,
to see the reality,
of the coherency,
of the picture.


1 comment:

Fisheye Lens said...

This tells a story. Of commitment to one's art, which is a story in itself.