I am for an Art with the smell of Spanish food that bleeds into busy streets.
I am for an Art with earth tones that blend into the outside world.
I am for an Art that allows the cat to scratch at and ultimately destroy.
I am for an Art that tucks me in at night only to wake up me at 1:00am.
I am for an Art whose lines repeat and roll into infinity.
I am for an Art that is found in hot garbage.
I am for an Art that is drifting through the subway train wind.
I am for an Art that is floating through a creek in the mountains.
I am for an Art at the bottom of an empty mug.
I am for an Art that’s in the desert land, in-between the suburbs and the city.
I am for an Art that is asking a question in response.
I am for an Art that doesn’t call for attention.
I am for an Art that doesn’t shave.
I am for an Art that cuts it’s own hair.
I am for an Art with thin, frail black lines, and vines all around it.
I am for an Art that one must eat cranberries and sip red wine to.
I am for an Art that is always on the verge of breaking.
I am for an Art that is burning, fueling the fire of something bigger.
I am for an Art that takes a century to create.
I am for an Art that is hard to look at directly without crying.