Heart of an Artist

There is no one , and I mean no one who knows what goes on inside the heart of the artist,.The artist is a teeming mass of conflicting visions, impulses, insecurities, phantoms, manic victories, crunching defeats, grand maniac pursuits down blistering dead highways that plunge into hysterical rivers and walls of joyful panic and bliss,.no off switches adorn the hobo artist with their alarming smiles and verbal bullets streaming out of their petulant teeth,.offering up universes and puny jingles of scanty coins to others who are more broke, more desperate, more maligned then they are,..Artists are the trinkets jingling on the dress of the contessa dancing on a musky table in Madrid, they are the horns on the ram standing snowbound on peaks blasting their cries of freedom across the icy ranges, they are the beautiful debauched mendicants with sassy moaning guitars on grungy corners bringing glints of sensuality and hope to the eyes of the lost, feeble and forgotten,.Artists crave love like babies who wrap themselves like sailors knots around the necks of uncaring mothers, bleating and squalling,

"Please don't throw my gifts into the toilets of hell, lift them up, tie them securely to the jetty of passion, don't let them list in Satan's claws, feed them only glistening jewels and pearl milk diets; protect us from greedy scavengers who would toss us like half eaten fruit into poison wells and dung piles."

You see, no matter what you posses, your mountains of coins that you can't bring with you at the end, your broad opinions and fleeting indulgences, you could never fathom the galaxy of wonder living in the ragged artists heart, wonder that topples all self aggrandizement, and how with a simple stroke of the pen or brush can whisk you into the house of God to sit for a moment to laugh, to cry, to dance and to see whats never been seen. Take special care of the artist for no one, and I mean no one knows what goes on inside the heart of the artist.