to each his art

each to his own
piece of art. the cubist
leaning
awkwardly against
the triangle of a bull's
set of horns,
love hurts.
the abstract
splatter of Pollack
is me
some nights, some long
nights, either out
or alone.
the bend of time,
clocks dripping with hours
along the bare branches of Dali's
trees.
hooper's diner, who hasn't
had their elbows
up on a long
counter sipping coffee
after a night of revelry
at 3.
and wharol's silly cans
of soup,
who doesn't want
to kick them all down
a long deserted street.
but give me black and white.
give me
the bloodless image
of a camera held still
on a building,
an empty boulevard, on
a lover asleep on white
sheets throughout
a winters night.