Do I Make the Art, or Does the Art Make Me?

I survived the mach 4 years and they left me with nothing but a headache and a faded pair of
chucks. They left me backbone to the sidewalk and teeth to the stars screamin’

“Do i make the art, or does the art make me?”

I barrel rolled through 16 supersonic seasons crashing and cannonballing only stopping to
glance at the freeze frame and notice how out of place my legs looked against blurring lines of
that life.

Even with pieces missing i can still see what the puzzle paints.

I slithered down the slippery slope but it didn't matter. All I knew and could comprehend was
anti-gravity. I was distracted by sound of the sudden absence of the crushing of snow.

A spider's web is only a trap for those who do not wish to be consumed.

I told myself to breathe and and just blink up the sweat into my eyes each time a three mile loop
around bloomington north park was injected into my quivering calves.

I never could get behind the 20:00 minute mark, sweating or not.

I wore through 4 pairs of skinny jeans, 6 pairs of headphones, and 86 gallons of premium
unleaded gasoline on the way to the finish line, come to find, painted in bright white “start”

Just another lap, in another race, in the mind of a very tired tortoise.

I had some good ideas among the breeding of bad ones, everybody does. The difference is i
wrote some down asking “would the egyptians hang this up and wonder why it was written?”

And with each shovel i build myself a tomb. I'm the pharaoh and the slave.

I’m a waster, a wanter, a wisher, humming to myself. A bullet, a bulldog, a bluebell watering the
grass while the wide world burns down behind me.
I moved to paris but ended up in the jungle, still laughing hard.

I’m the first responder to the last mistake, double take, for all you can get. Soak it up because if
the car crash is the last thing you feel, at least you felt it.

I ran down the highway starring at my sunken reflection in the fleeting glass.

I was six thousand waves away, crying becuase i laughed, falling because i flipped and altho it
is silent now I can still hear you, pushing up your glasses and telling me
“Even if he marrow tastes bad just keep sucking”

I did too. That's the crazy part. Spoonful after spoonful. Like a hornet hovering by my head.
Bonds like bones. But bones can still be broken

It's all just noise and organized carbon and pretty faces, don't you know?

I'm on the floor dry heaving visions. Like a strobe flashing and fighting. My memories. My ideas
like the end of the world in a particle accelerator.

And that's me falling up the spiral staircase of DNA

I’m a time traveler who locked himself in the machine, waiting until i am born again so i can pass
myself the key, but for 65 million years slapping my forehead will have to do.

And bells ring like screams from heaven. We follow ourselves. Class after class.

And its a forward march, upstream, through the dust bowl and the greatest depression each
steps sound disintegrating and dissolving into the blinding whirlwind.

But the vacuum of life is good weather you want it to be or not.

The colors of every lonely night, i caught myself punching for air in the suffocating darkness,
every color a visible stroke in the stream of a star gleaming, swirling, teaming, and all staying in
one spot. All the restless confusion, worries and doubts, the hollowness and horror of the heart
blending into a masterpiece, hanging on a wall in a frame in the early morning.
Did van gogh do suicide or did suicide do a van gogh?

Yeah. I survived those mach 4 years. And they left me with nothing but a book of poems and a
bloody nose. They left me feet in the mouth, back on the ground with road rash, head in the
trash
Clenching my aching side.
And whimpering under my breath

Do I make the art or does the art make me?