The Artist
 
Sometimes she does not feel like telling a story
words just so, no room for misunderstanding
misdirection miscommunication misogyny
misspelling no one to blame, no one to blame her no
victim no pain no desire yes desire no platitudes
no triteness no line breaks no punctuation sometimes
the page cannot contain the words the smells the
tears the inadequacy the rage the vision the magnitude
the inescapable adverbs sometimes
there are no adverbs.
 
Sometimes she sees herself with arms outstretched
braced against the currents that purport to drown she
will not allow it she takes the letters the damning
words the hateful words the heretic words the lies
the lies the lies the lies she cuts them into little pieces
delusional
              sabotage
                     indefensible
                                    insane
                                                            I hate you
I love you she buries them deep within canvases and
collages an artist imprinting her work with DNA
she buries them deep under colors and columns, pieces
of cork Starbucks coffee containers cherubs and trees she
buries them under seas and skies the letters turning golden
and poisoning someone else’s house, not hers.
 
Sometimes she just has to get off the damn bus
be angry scream at the top of a mountain not ask
for help hurtle the minutiae from more than one surface
not sweep it up leave it there until it rots
paint the French dictionary 8 feet by 10 cut her hair
and burn
the wedding album
after the tide the calm is a blessing
now she can get back to words.