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.