Letter to my canvas I am work, you are art. An implement used in your bidding with no brain, no train of thought, voraciously I suck in colors all day long and stuff myself with starry shapes from the night hoarding them to spew forth like detritus out of flu’s belly when creativity beckons. As you glut yourself with my sensual shapes and color, I watch them seep into your empty whiteness until you are saturated—with me! You laugh as you are tickled by my brushes, sable soft hair massaging my spirit into your nebulous soul. I love and hate you, vacuous sponge, screaming for my red—my blood! Selfless hands continue love’s labor giving you everything you want to the detriment of all else. We need each other more than ever now, urgently our transaction is consummated; and We are one: work of art. But then you leave me, alone, just like all the others before you, proud and independent sycophants gawking. You alone are: work of art And I am nothing without you. I could join the others but colors and shapes collide inside my throbbing head in their eagerness to be born. I must help them, let them out I am work.