The fight must have been loud.
Broken bottles lay scattered, their
brief high-pitched revolution
contained in quiet aftermath.

I recreated the fight’s progression,
because anger and art are the simple matters
of elevating intensities
and not all at once.

My mirrored face glanced back
in several jagged reflections,
and I heard its breaking.
The soft unheard splash of whisky dribbled
down glass like the understroke of anger
drawn at first breath.

Burst bowls cratered the room, their intricacy
unconfined and free to whisper
fear into my ears.

There the chair with its canyon cracks, varnished knives
kicking out of its legs. Marble tiles, scratched- a chalkboard scream
strained against thudded carpet.

Blood formed abstract patterns on the wall,
as though this were
ceramic chair, wooden bowls,
the spaces in between;
all installed in meticulous
telling a story that had been told a thousand times before

but never just this way.

The fight must have been loud.
Its edges tore through maudlin wallpaper-
shrieks, grunts, crystal and alcohol
dredged memories
that remembrance ripped apart.

I stood behind clear glass
and called it art
because I felt like a revolution-
participating in another’s anger.

After a while, the glass scratched
and I still called it art
because I felt something too.

And then I stood inside the room
called it art
and felt it all at once.

Notes: Image (Tigers in the Night, 2011 oil on canvas) sourced from Erik Olson’s Out of India Collection.

Visually inspired by Kane’s destructive reaction to Susan leaving him in Citizen Kane.

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