Grafitti Poem by Morgan Michaels

Sometimes it seems all the grafitti in the world
was scrawled on the walls of almost everywhere
by the furious brush of one inspired hand:
appearing overnight like the rust in the trees
and left behind with scarcely a backward glance
by an artist who moves on and on;

Scrawled on the walls of practically everywhere:
garage doors, depots, flanks of trains, cows,
any non-glassy surface broad enough to serve
as canvas for the single, stealthy hand-,
working from point A, then circle-trotting the globe,
ending, at last, at precisely the starting point;

As the stars glimmer-glimmered or the moon effused
always in darkness, for (just a reminder, here) ,
when it's dark in these parts, it's golden in the far
end of the world, the shadow-line drawn on like a cape,
as he or she advances, always a step ahead,
ledger by ledger, line by line;

With a quiverful of brushes, a stencil-file
and a satchel of aerosols, red, green and tan-
geared to translate human thought to form
that first seems chaotic but ultimately, fairly skilled,
seeking that punk dimension that makes people brake
when seen by headlight, and nearly have accidents;

Prizing speed, extemporaneity, on-going-ness,
never caring, never looking back, deeming what is, is,
eschewing theory, pedagogy, praise,
apolitical, largely, in cheerful league
with Sinter Claus, and that (fie) Easter creature
who also have skill to nightly run the globe.

Sometimes it seems like all the world's grafitti
was scrawled on the walls of practically everywhere
by the bustling brush of one hypomanic hand-
appearing in the morning like red rust in the trees
familiar to most, but seen by none
oblivious of deadline or of fees.