Presence.

I just let go
and left it to them.
The what and when, the how.
Now free to dance, the dance is good,
by its one true definition.

Quaint folks look to me for inspiration,
sweat big droplets, bead
my hair, their perspiration, 
a stench of liquid held in suspension,
I smell this air, breath it deeply in.

They offer me cheap cameras -
so I can take poor pictures -
I'm cool with that shit,
like to feel them spreading it,
going about their cancers.

The cause-I'm aching to present,
a little something of true yoga -
Hence the meeting, the chaotic gathering,
the organic treats you've all been munching,
the wine, and songs...

Yeah, thanks; but I've had my thanks.
It was on their faces, the little
super-beings. Lighthouses, damn you-
stop telling them to go away, man.
They are children.

But of course you don't
know what that means, have
well-forgotten... Fair swell up though
when I tell you I'm so honoured
to be in his presence even -

To just watch the artist work,
the confident precision of the stroke,
the no-thought for the crease
that worked the pencil loose, causes
such a sensation...

The Da Vinci, the Picasso - in him.
Second, third, whatever year art school - in him.
The this is the most important work in the world-
No other can do this-this is my work-
no material lack will stop me- in him.

I don't give a fuck if he's only four.
I'm honoured man, It's YOU
I'll show the door to. And mean it,
and even though I'm so cool so cool
when I lay it on you, flip the spikey mind-parts

that fly to me, a wave, like I might somehow
transmute them, make that force a joyful thing,
a soulful thing, like before it's carbon,
burned in, yeah, even though
I'm so cool it's almost play

you don't do it again.
The boy stays.


Cor, June 2000