I don’t believe any real artist cares whether what he or she does is ‘art’ or not. Who, after all, know what is art? I think the real artists are too busy with just being and growing and acting (on canvas or however) like themselves, to worry about the end. This end is what it will be. The object is intense living, fulfillment, the great happiness in creation.
- Robert Henri, the Art Spirit
It appears, as of late, as though, we are always at half mast.
Everyone flying without wings.
Bank robbers without banks.
Cowboys and Indians without a hero.
Nowhere zones for nobody.
The local inconvenient-mart surrounded by splintered beings.
There is no glorified banner of right or wrong…
Good or evil.
Just a setting in which…desolation can dwell.
Peace on earth; a cup of twice brewed coffee…
weak and watery.
The middle of the road…lawless without castles.
Pieces of titled heaven in a used car lot.
Vetted veterans to the unknown wars…
no glory, no banner.
Just a holiday savings at the state liquor store.
Alas, no morals are left for the majority tours…of duty.
Daily helping hands down at the pantry.
Empty church pews guarded by rock star sentries.
Left on their own for fruitless searches.
To unearth nowhere places with placid deserters.