by Joel E. Jacobson
The picture won’t paint itself.
The idea won’t self-reveal
without forcing itself
through the prism of the artist.
Thick, grieving strokes black out
the self (a penciled-in outline)
and the subsequent colors,
however sad or beautiful
are no longer sensible or appealing.
What it takes to sit there
and let each brush be felt
each piece be placed
until the picture holds depth.
Things used to inspire eventually expire,
end up in the back corner of a tired thrift store
on sale for 25 cents. It becomes difficult to tell
which is heavier,
the dust or the paint.