theres nothing left to see
when the sun goes down
on a winter day
and the world scurries home
to make fires
and watch television
and make long distance phone calls
to far away loved ones
and the microwave buzzes
with a dinner done
and the boy runs down
the
stairs
from doing his homework
to talk and laugh and eat and drink
and fill up with innocence
and all the things he doesnt know
...and still doesnt
......and wont for a long time

a globe of sound
where every curve is a new vibration
feeding
living off of the others
where even the simplest line
can fill the world
or a heart
the architecture complex
and the architect
magnifyed to simplicity
building a message
within the envelope of feel
upon the rafters of key
painted major
minor
built in four years
ot waltzed through in three's
sliding in frets
in a phantom of sound
that brings us home

When I was six fine art meant...
men with beards
paintings cracked with time
and statues of people with no clothes
ninja turtles and
water colors for indecipherable sunsets
over the sand
fine art meant
something my mom could do
and my dad couldn't
parts of museams
that where briskly walked through
to reach the skeletons of prehistoric reptiles
but then everything changed
and art spoke a new language
of feel and mood
it carried with it and atmosphere of its own
no longer colors on canvas
with nothing bhind them
but a wall and a hook
no, these paintings were mounted on depth
and art was mine and
no one elses
I wore the x-ray glasses
and saw what no one else did
and then I learned
that all eyes see differently
with perspectives like prescriptions
and my glasses where just another brand
and art was everyone's
it was my fathers songs
not just my mothers paintings
and it was even the day spent
with water colors forming indecipherable
sunsets over the sand.