The Artistic Binge Starts Here

I. Newsflash

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a ton of bricks hit our freshman heads
in the form of a brilliant binge artistry,
and we drew blanks
without lifting a single utensil,

too preoccupied with
being spoon-fed the spice of life,

never realizing how small we were
between the crevices
of a certain dimmed limelight.

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II. In Which I Speak For The Majority of Artists

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feel free to lend me your ears --
that is, if you don't want them back
for a long while.

it was a sketchbook romance,
we've all felt this lust as often
as we felt the Ticonderoga granite slip
cleanly through our fingers, leaving
behind

ideas, the skin pulled drum-tight
over the right-brained womb,
a barely fetal scribble, embryo-doodle
winding up DOA between our fingers.

it was the work of hands, more hands,
and suspended animation.

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III. Applause I Don't Deserve

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even when her muse died nightly
in a screaming silence --
really, now, she had to give it
the Prodigal Artist Try
that yielded crude figures

crude figures
and -- for a change of pace --

crude figures.

minutes away, the mind-womb contracts
and even the mistakes are perfect.
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IV: Famous Last Words

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Mother, let me inherit your patience.
I'm sure you were a Prodigal Artist, too,
before hope sprung eternal
and you spent your days trying to plug it up.