One definition of art: not this

or tell this poem it’s not an alligator

Inventions of the Monsters, Salvador Dalí (1937)\

One definition of art: not this

by Bob Hicok

The day’s flashing a bit of skin to my left, 
or dawn, as scientists like to call it, 
is about to have its first bright idea 
of the morning, and even this faint glow’s 
like a trillion lit Zippos or bonfires 
having sex, don’t ask me, I just know 
the sun’s coming and how to change 
the oil on a 97 4Runner, the trick is 
finding a 97 4Runner and a reason 
to keep going when stopping 
makes a lot of sense, to rest, for sure, 
and maybe eat a quiche and apple pie sandwich, 
or wrestle the alligator in your heart, 
or tell this poem it’s not an alligator 
but your shadow looking at itself in the mirror 
and wondering where the time went 
and if the soundtrack 
to your frontal lobes 
is an all-flute jazz ensemble 
or train wreck in C minor, I know that tune, 
I am that tune and apologize 
for dragging you into this bog 
or tar pit or whatever this is, 
let’s start over and imagine 
a little painting, maybe five inches 
by seven of a shore and the sun 
looking over the shoulder of the horizon, 
the paint still wet and sounding like the surf 
touching and touching 
the beginning of something solid, 
what we call land but the ocean 
calls “not ocean”, and there’s a man 
holding a stick that was born 
in Europe and he’s thinking 
of jumping in and taking it home, 
and of the thing he’s trying 
hardest not to believe, 
that there’s a hole 
through everything, if you look closely
at the back of his head 
to see the expression
on his lack of a face