2It flowed
from front of brain to fingertip to
aerosol can,
Fluid, misting poetry
Filled the interstice between nozzle and wall,
And what was left behind was motion,
Transient words.
He wrote his life story on a parking garage,
But when he came back and read
It
Meant nothing.
Acrylic paint on concrete,
Strangely silent though he screamed it,
And the people walked by and read nothing.
Can't they recognize art when they see it?
Or does it have to be inside a frame?
His was the kind that moved and flourished
where
it
pleased.