Foray Into Visual Art
The poet is no good happy.
Sneak into its cell
while it’s writing
and throw its glass
of whiskey into its face.
That usually riles it up.
Tried that.
It seemed if anything
moderately disgruntled.
It even half smiled.
Not the fire we need.
Increase the beatings.
Crack a couple ribs.
Take away its time
out of its cell.
It will start to sing.
I already have broken
some bones.
I think it might be done.
Could be time.
We’ll drag it to the basement.
Tell it to write now
or it’s the end.
And then?
If it spits out a poem
and it’s good enough
we bring it back to its cell.
If it refuses
we bring it to its knees
in front of a cloth canvas on an easel.
We put a 12-gauge shotgun to its forehead
and paint a picture.