by Christos Polydorou

WIN_20140813_130943Some man drew me. You
know the feeling. He didn’t
care about berets, long coats,
being called an artist, all he
cared about was painting. Imagine
him, getting out of bed in the morning,
knowing exactly where any of us is,
who is falling from out of the stars,
down from space, into his palms,
up turned. What is art? What does it
mean? What does it do? Some man
drew me, imagine him, he
barely has put his coffee cup to his
lip, and he is painting on a wall, from
sunrise to sunset, as the stars course over
his head in unseen trails of silver-
light, comets, constellations. Some
man drew me, and I stepped off the
wall, and here I am. You know the feeling.