Is It Art?

His voice sounded like a wood rasp hitting a nail in a board.

"Wanna fuck you, baby, wanna fuck you, baby,
wanna fuck you, baby, tonight!"

He threw his guitar
into the air,
then jumped on it
when it came crashing down
on the stage.
Was this art
or was this a tantrum,
the last days of a culture
coming undone?

"Doing it your way,"
says the ad with the image
of a young man
supine on sofa,
slick laptop on bare belly.
But was art effortless,
requiring no work at all,
just releasing
the "creative spirit within"
—after forking out big bucks
for a MacBook Pro

or a Gibson Les Paul, of course?
Or does a flower blossom
only after planting the seed,
watering the soil around it,
warm rays of sunshine,
then the struggle to be?

粒 (lì) 粒 (lì) 皆 (jiē) 辛 (xīn) 苦 (kǔ)*
—now as ever.
Art is fantasy
but not that of a media "professional"
with a big budget and a bulging belly.

*Each and every grain (of rice) is hard (bitter) work, says the ancient Chinese poem.
—Louis Martin