#89: One Man's Fart Is Another Man's Heart (Art)

You See Some Work, Critic-Saluted,
Vetted, Valued . . . Nowhere Refuted,
The Teachers Having Taught And Tooted
The Stroker No Less Than Saint.
Whether Brushed, Or Fired, Or Booted,
Art, And All To Which It's Suited,
Still Is Only Constituted
By A Little Paint.

Art was one of the weirdest States
I think we visited.
Our maps had helped get us there, but
the place was full of shit.

I think it was the only time
we saw a car like ours,
and travelers ooo'd and aahh'd about
some cow pies and dung towers.

They bought and sold, and stole and saved
the bovine excrement
as if it all were made of gold,
or autographed by Vincent.

The scene disturbed me, I'll admit,
though I was keeping still.
But Jo-Mima's less-than-soft comments
were nothing less that shrill.

"Nothing here is even work . . ."
he yelled at all who stood
close enough to hear us, and
who then grabbed all they could.

Well, he went on insulting them,
and with a critic's flair,
he called them names, and laughed out loud,
but no one seemed to care.

Indeed, I'd have to say that they
seemed deaf to his reproach.
They speedily went on about
their dung and feces poach.

"Damn, this is so stupid, but
it's getting to me now,"
Jo said to me, as we began
considering the cow.

"Maybe I've been missing all
the signs of cow pie art.
Maybe we should try to give
collecting dung a start."

And, yes, it helped us out somewhat
to hear the Voice advise
that bovine shit was exactly that
of which art is comprised . . .

that unbeknownst to us, these cows
weren't only taking shits,
but intending to express themselves
with cowly pie-ous bits.

That "art" was the expression of
intentions to create,
while others waste their energies
trying to evaluate.

It didn't seem at all profound,
and doesn't seem so now,
but I got the sense that Level 3
might treat it more somehow.

And, finally, as we turned to go,
and maybe only then,
we pulled an extra lesson from
that cow-galleric den . . .

that, yes, all men are free to find
their own concept of art . . .
and, yes, that token in reverse
permits one to depart . . .

from any group's convention, or
the leanings of the horde . . .
and yet, it's tough to stay ashore
when everyone's on board.

For, as we watched the countless nuts
go combing through that field,
where nothing but more piles of dung
was all that it could yield . . .

we got the odd sensation that
we ought to get a sack,
and start collecting crap that we
could frame when we got back.