I Would Like the Art to Like Me
by Ben Kline
I would like the art to like me and bathe in a nave under high, stained windows inscribed with wise words about it. About the art I mean, even as tipsy I seem, off a dry brut precipice somewhere in Appalachia’s west foothills, where fanatic overtakes fan and prayer becomes a mumbling through methane tears, oily vipers and masturbatory stares.
I would like the art to leave me warm and melting like morphine, cradled in high crests of whipped butter or the wraparound stings of nine little barbed tails that snap I love you in any language ever uttered. I would cook it in my trailer overnight. As if the pleasure’s all ours at all hours on all fours, and we have no means to object. I would like to paint with pseudoephedrine and poppers.
I would like the art to lead me loosely, in fast directions, like an after midnight trick from the pier who sports ripped jorts and a fat-lipped sneer, convincing me to express abstractly all over him in errant lines, gooey blots and guttural syntax. Our stories shall show what we tell in past tense, well-edited. I would like our stories to be like me, easy art that all can see.