After Hung Tung

Drawing makes me forget
the first fifty years, more hardship
than happiness. I’m not mad,
nor possessed, nor useless.

I picked up a rock and
scribbled out my old life.
I’m a fairy tale or folk hero or
whatever you wish to make of me.

My wife, I asked her permission
to paint. I asked again and again.
My wife, I must paint. I must.
I need to make my life.

From my hands, faces bloomed
on fields of red. Blue babies and
fantastic hairstyles. Small people
dancing in stripes, in polka dots.

I strung my paintings outside
the temple, flags in the wind.
I let the magazine interview me.
I’m becoming holy.

I won’t sell I won’t
sell I won’t sell I
won’t.