The Mind of a Painter

It comes from the centre.
It comes from the mirror;
the genes which hunt us now
are blades plowing the wheat fields
while above all savage eyes
is a meat factory of light.

It comes from the edges.
It comes from the night;
the memories which strangle us now
are knives cutting the flesh of a cow
while above all pitiful eyes
is a golden field of clouds.

The farmer does not know he is a butcher of ideas,
throwing away everything that
might madden him with failure.

The butcher, in his frigid back freezer,
flaying the day away with his metal teeth
does not know there is an art in the
skinning of an animal,
throwing away everything
until only flesh
and madness
remain.
He does not know his bloody easel
is a painting
of God.

And God's eyes know madness.