Art is a nameless,
faceless volunteer
for the human mind's
victimless crime of " frame".
Art,
having no self-consciousness,
passively models ensembles
of meaningfulness.
Innocent Matter,
embarrassed about doing impressions,
pleads with man;
"please don't make me do art".
But no, it's art,
costumed for the hunt,
leaving a simplistic trail
for cowardly dogged
explanations to follow!
Everyone basically claims
to be art's illegitimate father
by their perspective a such.
It's the disease of documentation
that evokes
such exaggerated blood ties.
Why don't we, just for once,
give our retentive minds
to a Macy's type
of helium filled dirigibles
on parade
then cut these arty thoughts free?
After all, art is not in the likeness
of toddlers to mittens
nor neck-around nametags.
Is the eventual demise of art
that there is nothing left to frame
or no place else to put it?
And then is that
solemnly followed
by the final renaissance
of all art:
as the re-interpretation
of everything!
Ah yes, "a toast". . .
"to art,
the un-aging cosmetologist
for the human mind”!
But, just between you and me,
admit it, really,
art doesn't know itself . . .
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