The empty canvas
The blank page
An infinity of possibilities
Awaiting the imposition
Of limitation

A life
A bare life
Unfettered
Infinite in possibility
Until the first scream
And
The undesired
Unexpected
Slap on the buttocks
The cut of the knife

This is no artist
Painting her own canvas
Her’s will be painted

This is no novelist
Writing her own book
Her’s will be written
At least in part
By another
By the cruel and short-sighted
By the good and not so good

Ah, the handing off of broken brushes
Of blunt instruments

Draw
Or write

On the torn canvas
On crumpled paper

Original sin–or something similar enough!

Damned by the bad decisions
Of generations
Equipped as well
With blunt instruments and gadgets
With distortions
Contortions
Of their own
And all
Only in small part
Self-caused
They too
Are
Cursed

Infinity
Concretized

Possibility
Actualized

Into a crooked image
Into a word
An utterance
Or a sign
Calling forth
A world

Of beauty
Or disgust

Shit
Vomit

Or
Love
Such a vague word
A mere ideal
A dream
Or a ghost

Yet always concretized
In a special way
Singular
And
Wholly
An example