The way I see it-
art contains real magic.
Like blinking, or like an
automaton,-always on.
Projecting its wizardry
when no one’s there to see it.
A child is a miracle-
of busy blurred lines.
Making it difficult for
others to focus on them directly,
blinded by their angelic
buzz of innate electricity.
Art is the grandchild of
God-
or whatever grand-father
you Believe in.
It’s immaculate
conception and delivery are born proof,
of a source, the straw
that was pulled, the ignition point.
We are the ghosts of our
grandchildren.
Now.
We have to pave the way,
clearing our Karmic path
to Here.
Art arrests shape-
holds it captive-
to represent-
likeness-ness.
Our family tree,
rooted in our orchards
of History,
bears ripe fruit of
juicy inspiration,
tastes like sweet familiar
childhood in the shape of a fractal.
Image By Randomness (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons, 'Fractal face of Beauty, 2008'.
