By: Art Trustin Burros
January 28, 2005

I remember when art was beautiful, ugly
And every thing in between
I remember hearing in school, when I was young,
That all art is good
I remember when I could write anything I wanted,
When I could tell stories,
When I could reveal deep dark secrets,
When I could open my heart
And accept my vulnerability
I remember when I could feel

In my past, I wrote, I sang, I played music, I drew pictures,
I created what I thought was good
I lost track of the days, the years
The people that I called friends
I lived in the past, present and future
Some how I had become civilized,
Avoiding my immediate experience, my animal instincts,
The pitiful awareness associated with a caged creature
Trapped in the four corners forged by the hands of humanity
I was free, without competition, without discipline
Without needing to hope, to be forgiven, or to show humility,
I was living as I wanted, until I discovered the vultures

Out on the plain, covered with gold, wind swept grasses,
The zebra never changes his stripes
A hyena culls a weak zebra from the heard and engages pursuit
The lone hyena has found a very week zebra,
A rare and lucrative find
The hyena is able to ware the zebra out and pull it down,
Down to the ground, tearing its flesh,
Watching the red as it bleeds out
The hyena pulls at the meat under the hide
And realizes that he is not alone
He is surrounded by vultures
As he makes progress, loosening himself a meal,
He feels a vulture pecking at his hind quarters
He turns and snaps at the scavenger
When he turns back to recover his meal,
There is a mob of black feathers covering the hole in the zebra
The hyena is alone in his fight to claim his kill
His brethren are nowhere to be seen,
So now he must fight with the true scavengers,
Pecking at his flanks,
Stealing bites from his kill,
Fighting amongst themselves for a piece of meat,
A bit of clean, wet, substance where a soul resided,
Unchanged by the cruelty of what went on outside the herd

I was happy as an artist fending for his self
I was good at finding zebras and eating well
Until, the vultures spotted my spoil and surrounded me,
Swooping down,
Stealing only what they wanted,
Leaving what they could not use,
Distracting me from behind,
And taking all that I had worked for
The bare, pink headed philosophers with their wings spread,
Driven mad from the scent of warm tissue baking in the sun,
Flashing their bloody beaks,
Reveling in the arrogance of their own taste,
The true scavengers of society,
Circling in the sky, waiting for someone else to make a kill,
To make a mistake,
To stand alone and face their madness