-|polaroids from dreams|-

there is a flashpoint

where the artist becomes his own art;

his own canvas on which his flesh is painted

by himself.

some secret threshold : and then the artist has no means of escape.

his thoughts become poems.

his words become songs.

his eyes are silent cameras clicking soundlessly in his own mind

making their photographs from everyday life's easy mistakes.

the artist as art. he hangs himself so quickly

that you cannot watch. his knife etches daily strange sculptures

into his own thoughts. into his own body.

you break his bones

& his bones are bread. you drink his blood

and his blood is wine.

& now he is crucified

on the platform of his own

polaroids from dreams.