As With Van Gogh Art Work Is Poem by James McLain

There is no greater color than that
for what color is.
Meandering red, yellows, browns rushing
into and out of a greater mind
than mine, being smart a genius really is.
A snap shot in time, dying young
body parts sprayed with a flash of insight
only death could properly display.
The colors are a good bowl of cherries where
I am and am not certain you can see what
I see that I can't.
Left out in the open my position on life is
not as yours
but a spring break of colors displayed out
in the open with the rich smell
of such colors that even you and you can taste.
Tree's with out branches are unlike
bushes with out leaves of witch none are green.
The wagging tounge the younger the lips
being thick or full
when painted red are but a reminder of those
other lips rubbed with yellow oil.
Finally the clothes
those rags, rubbed in the dirt of dirty rich dirt that
you won't consider much less wear.
Then theirs the flash a flash of bright light
left in plain view
of the night where you slumber and sleep any way.