Van Gogh Can You Tell Me
van Gogh, can you tell me
where does beauty go when it dies?
van Gogh, can you tell me
why saints live on car exhaust
and are lonely as crushed acorns
while enormous suppurating blisters of men
sleep on beds made of dollars, their pillows
the breasts of fantastic women
van Gogh, can you tell me
you who made paint scream
who drew the expressions of the wind
and portrayed leaves and stars
writhing in agony
as though they were human
tell me which of the satellites
circling the earth
is mine
how many pairs of shoes does it take to
walk to infinity
do you believe the world will ever learn how to
cry in unison
van Gogh, with your skin like scorched leather
from too much time spent in the wheatfields
on your knees, shooting dice with God
over who gets to color sunset
didn’t you ever feel like an asshole
incapable of self-preservation
always crossing at the end
van Gogh, can you tell me
as the sun comes down around my ears in
chunks today
as hummingbirds hover at my window
cursing me in tiny voices
why roads drag you down them
how you are finding light in Paradise
and if you have your own easel
or if God allows you to paint on the sky
by David Lerner
from The Last Five Miles to Grace
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