I heard a poet yesterday. Parked behind a podium, he unlocked and rolled-up the rusty overhead door of his warehoused soul and began unloading words, dock-high. Palatable crates of joy boxed with pain, fork-lifted, under-weight. Second-hand wit shipped with wisdom third-rate. Road-damaged goods and factory-sealed fate. The freight of his life re-packaged and packed through high-mileage ears to my semi-heart. I heard this poet and thought, "Is anyone really empty enough to haul around someone else's crap?"
oil, collage on mounted photo, 20" x 28"back
JAMES W JOHNSON