you and a canvas stand alone in an empty room. / the white of the canvas stares back at you. / it's petrifying. / before long, you strain your eyes, searching the endless white space / desperate for a shadow or a faint contour in its blank abyss.

//

and in your immobilized state / the urge to dirty it is unbearable. / this dastardly bleached, bone-bare square, / if you give it a mark, a bruise, anything at all! / your hand, at the very least, could feed this starved page! / your ink pauses / inches from the white surfaced. / you pause. / your brush lowers. you stand there / until tears prick your eyes / your calves burn / but you stare back / and your neck is alight from heat and too much time in one place. / it's blank and you stare back. / you wait and will i with bated breath - will the art to have the face to show up one day.

//

someday / ink will soak its page / and lines of liquid gasoline / will strike the white / until none remains.