The Weapon of Art

Flowers of rage, I’ll breathe stones, you just wait
     coming out of pockets, they make
     their gushing way through serendipity
     thick with souls of soil already
     tilled, hungry to take in Goliath’s face
     fists offering solace misplace
     truce, mistaking marketplace policy
     for law, taking silence for free

They grow in their haste, they anticipate
     fallout, falling freely to feet
     paced and poised in torn robe to take out, lay
     down, and shout with a southpawed heat
     the resounding rumble only art shakes
     and so in a moment all trace
     of a giant, of an icon, will be
     incorporated into these

Words iconocrashed into ink, wet paint
     made from bone, pigmented with pain
     laid onto page, if only to say, We
     did it; yes, it can be done! / ¡Sí,
     se puede!
“Art is a weapon,” they take
     liberties, making us always
     seem so damn threatening, as if any
     man made of clay could ever be

Anything more than he was made or paid
     to be; not that hypocrisy
     ever stopped them, denial subjugates
     after all, isn’t that what they
     want us to think? Buy it, wear it this way
     theories fashionably prayed
     to as if commerce was one, and only
     gods could become great; beware ye

Who use not your voice, direct not your fate
     we are rising weeds, and like weeds
     we like to think we can all infiltrate
     the stalks of those crops whose bad seeds
     need to be taught how to cooperate
     so next time you stand tall and fake
     interest in our hearts strung up nicely
     on your walls, know art fights dirty.