Art Will Be The Death Of Me

a poem by Susan Marie

Art will be the death of me

in a city with no illusions

not by ear nor noose

or by gunpowder bang

not hang me upside down in some

belfry rafters on Allen . . .

no.

Art will be the death of me

in halls and walls of babes and dolls

the slimy city streets

and gutters that retreat

to the romp a stomp beat

of concrete crystal meth

Art will be the death of me

in lines on mirrors on floors

copper colored spires and doors

closed and crumbling upon holy ground

drenched in Native blood

the caskets cannot suppress the talking dead

like the elms and the birch

the oak and the fir

the leaves they leap a hushed release

and springtime blooms through ice

only here

i say

only here

Art will be the death of me

he said to me

he did

and i agreed

i said it is noble to die for what one believes in

and he shook his head

hung it low

said Death is Art - Art is Death

the full circle superimposed

on lunar ebbs and tides

the push the pull

a sprint for the traffic light

stop start run

put your foot on the gas and go

Yes, Art will be the death of me

in bars and guitars

drum beats with bass clef boom

the smell of stale beer and smoke

no testament to choke

that these bright eyes

will be remembered

for my words

my face

how i spoke

the streams and seams of time

are long here

and a needle jacks the tracks

and keeps time like a metronome

on skin to vinyl thin veiled tears of fleece

yet it is here i find peace

in the stench of meat and bones

starving drones

spoken words and strums

i belong in this seductive maddening haze

days of drinks to please

the spider webbed veined disease

while chalk lined streets

force me on my knees

for Art

Oh, Art . . .

will be the death of me.