Art

Oftentimes I have found
that what I am told I am supposed to like
in this sky is the limit age
of shock jocks, advertising, entertainment, and art
seems to me to saunter underwhelmingly slim and sardonic,
like a pickled housewife in tight black skinny jeans,
straddling between what is good and what is not good:
Television, newspapers, poetry, spiders.
It smells like a perfume
I would never wear let alone bottle.

This idea of art and expression
seems to smirk at me
having a laugh at my expense
as I sit with my now unchaste thoughts
unsure of myself for the experience,
more so than I already am
if that’s even possible.

But I seem to be reaching the age
where I have accepted that what I choose to like
in movies, television, magazines, poetry
is wide and round and smooth,
like an eggplant or a baby’s cheeks.
Quiet or noisy, it smells like home
filled and spilling over the brim,
a warm and sloppy housewife
pouring coffee at the wrong time of day
to her surprise guests
with overwhelming amounts of love.

It is a place where
soft and billowy cobwebs
are artwork spilled like milk
in the corners of a home
where walls meet ceilings.