A disclaimer to my readers: Because I am computer illiterate, I don't know how to fix this--in a Word document, this makes the pattern of a tree. In these too skinny margins, though, some of my branches are bent. Oh well!
Artists
In our family tree
We find a multitude
Of characters, a motley crew
I search to see if I share resemblance
To any of whom I count among the giants
If I can spot underneath the microscope’s lens
That the chains of my DNA strands bind me to them
I clearly identify on my face the nose of that surrealist
Bretón, who sniffed something more behind the curtain
Of realism’s staged reality, its mundane props, and its structure
I recognize, from an angle, the sagging shoulders and, perhaps, big head
Of those romantic prophets and seers, who carried the burden of difference
Am I of the same breed of people, the many revolutionaries in these branches
Who believe the artist responsible for both speaking truth and acting upon it
I sing to hear if my voice resembles Dylan’s, if I can speak for my generation
Under my eyes, I wear the dark circles that brand insomniacs, like Okri
Who resists the somnolent hours, standing guard, and listening
As did Rilke’s, my ears hear the befriending of lofty Night
For the most part, though, I see myself in the masses
Of unidentified artists, who namelessly
Continue to create
Day after day
Despite
Fame
Often
Lacking
Vision,
Words,
Images,
Muses
Yet Not
Quitting
I am all
Of these
As I look
In the mirror
This is what it means
I see, to be born an artist
