I’m escorted by a vanity of mind.
She lays me down atop her vanity.
adjusts the mirror and says,
there’s no such thing as abstract art,
only vanity, the study of god
of beads. As a child, I was stranded
on the nude beaches of my mind,
the lap of god,
the ocean tending to its vanity,
tending to the vanity of art.
my vanity says,
I am a fuselage of dove. She says,
I am a fuselage of cheek, stranded
in the bulwarks of an art,
she says, still life of mind,
of grief, before it manifests in vanity,
a child’s line drawing of god.
I climbed into the brainstem of god.
vanity confessed to vanity.
I confessed to vanity. I stranded
her inside my three-way mirror,
the beaches of the mind.
It was not me, not art.
I learned how to talk an art
the way a god can talk about a god
— the pronoun of the mind—
the “I”—that towers she says,
I am a vein, I am a strand
of erect pearls, shocked into vanity
by the old electric chair of vanity
until the body was a strand
This poem includes a quote attributed to Jean Dubuffet: "There is no such thing as abstract art, or else all art is abstract."