_____________Realize___________

I summed up a

         person’s life on my cellphone:

Art is just life, man; ”old” disney was where it was at, with all the subliminal messages saying “here here here here here here here here look look look look look sex look look here”.

His passion was displaced at golf courses-at twenty-2 years his graffiti kept him going.

All I know, now, you know too, And, if I suddenly became a solipsist, this is all he is       right now and all he’ll ever be.

Is it sad that I don’t remember his face?

     You’ll say no; he was only a fleeting moment, but what do you know?

                           You’re one of those people

                           who believes in falling in love with cliches.

And I feel just as sordid,

                            Writing a “He’s still a person, love and respect this man” poem.

I’m

Just

Like

You

In the respect that I can’t think for myself at this very moment. 

All I have of a person

A person a human a homo sapien 

The same type of person I wrote eight pages on a few months ago,

(Filled with Carl Sagan quotes, evolution facts, and quips about the theory of mind)

   Comes to the    grand              total of                   a few        pixels.

                                           It’s like he’s not even there.

                                           I’ve dehumanized an artist

                                           It’s like I don’t even care.

                                           I do, but the words I use to 

                                           Give meaning to this chapter of a liftime

                                            Are at too low a reading level

                For gods (or God or the goddamnspacetimecontinuum) to elevate to their eye-level.

I’m afraid I’ve let Emily Dickinson down by reading her poems

The one’s she wanted burned when she died.

Even more so when I 

                       Tear

                                          Them

      Apart-

                                                                  Marking them up in red ink and writing yet more papers on the subject of her art.

                                             Oh Emily,

I never loved punctuation so much until I met you in your own words

excusemeyourown world

             

So, Greg the street artist

                                (I hope that is your name;

It is now at least

                  )

                                                         Here’s to you.