Hothouse

I wonder whether he would have wanted us to gaze
upon those fourteen unsigned olive trees. Fifteen billowing
wisps of hue, only one stroked with Vincent, pride etched
onto canvas pulled taut.

Batty might be synonymous with genius these days,
and we couldn’t leave dead and well alone,
because he dared to see cerulean and indigo
in a place men only find green.

I think a real man of Van Gogh,
whose shame was stolen and framed,
lit under the dim glow of mahogany and
granite, claimed for the feast of insatiable eyes.

We can’t help but stare at monkeys in a cage, and I bet
you thought yourself a savior after you made that poor girl
your purpose to fulfill, because she was empty
and alive.

No penance left by the bedside, just
a stale glass of water three-quarters-downed.
That should be enough after she tempted your palate,
and she should be thankful for your eyes.

Perhaps boys choose heroes when they’re young,
men flashy and quick-witted. Ones who win,
drawing blood from unapproachable girls who
Wouldn’t know a good thing when it slaps them upside the head.

Vincent was no hero, and nobody
worships a martyr. He submitted himself to life,
to death, to you and to me,
to the hungry.

Mortals pay no mind to the violent red that spills
along the cliffside where Prometheus is bound.
Only the eagle, who hungers at the stench
of ripe, gooey flesh.