If the art,
if the art in its magic denies itself the right to be a portal,
If the art is talking about it, or thinking about it, or what is or isn’t, if the art is all that, if the art is visibility and freedom in the self and not playing to a fiddle key out of tune, if the art is a bar crowded with fans and you in the wrong jersey, if the art is a paragraph when it wants to be a stanza a little bit more, if the art swings and streams and screams and cries louder than you’re used to, if the art denies itself of you and your pleasures, if the art wrings its hands and says there is no more here for you child, if the art is the wonderful whiplash turnstile tilt of what we know to be true, if the art is a song sung by lungs corroded with dust and asbestos, if the art is a window into something glowing and just out of reach, if the art is a way to get closer without knowing how, if the art in its magic denies itself the right to be a portal, if the art scrapes and scratches an itch to be born, if the art is a painful pimple in the center of the forehead, if the art is a pressing reminder to have a third eye, if the art is a way to drift into the river, if the art is a way to dive headlong into the cold, if the art is made on a dance floor, if the art is made in your head and only lives there, if the art is a series of words you’re too scared to string together, if the art won’t come because you let the editor in, if the art performs best drunk, if the art moves, if the art offends, if the art expands, if the art loses its place and holds its grace hobbling on one heel of a shoe, if the art pushes you to say it, if the art pushes you to write it, if the art bleeds on the page, if the art refuses to bleed on the page, if the art grabs a hand and introduces itself on the way with a name ending in two Es, if the art is fluorescent, if the art is a place you cannot name, if the art is a language you cannot trace, if the art is a heart you have not met yet, if the art is a heart you have, if the art is a way to jump out of the shell you’re placed in, if the art is a sled downhill on ice in the summer, if the art asks to break you, if the art holds the ache, if the art denies its appearance, if the art sends you spiraling, if the art spins you out of this orbit, if the art stands up and says no, if the art is the floor, if the art is the ceiling, if the art is nowhere like it’s not even here at all, if the art pushes the ones you love away, if the art makes people around you ask how much they love you or what it is they’re seeking after all, if the art is a ring on your finger and betrothed you are to the path, if the art won’t tell you the path and it’s for you to find, if the art won’t ask any more of you and all you are doing is begging it, if the art leaks and lingers and stinks up your shirt, if the art yellows the armpits, if the art is wider and bigger than you imagined, if the art beats the ego into place, if the art answers and you never asked, if the art came and you did not, if the art slipped fingers down your waistband after asking about your tattoo, if the art now informs your tattoo, if the art is a place you will not go, if the art is a place you are nostalgic for, if the art if the if the art is the art is the if the if the if.
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