We make art because
life is an affliction
a fatal accident, frame by frame
a flaming vehicle screaming jesus
because life is an iron maiden mangling
with twenty twisting augers, heaven’s marauding tenant
killing with one casual crush of a thumb
because there is no hope except
we midwife something not of flesh
thus impervious to pain
And so we need no unguents or palliatives
or bandages or kind words
We need ambulances rushing us
to emergency wards of art,
sirens blaring:
the world done and god fair warned
of our glorious arrival.
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A Slow, Painful Death Would Be Too Good For You (and Other Observations) 