not much is needed, she said
if you’re an artist you rent a studio
she said. an empty white room
where the time passes accumulates
lists stained sheets of paper that represent
the impossible amount of things
you earnestly plan to do every day.

If you extend your sensorial awareness
through the walls your fingers
leaf-like in the wind and the sun
you reach your blood-lines find
true identity in the conceptual thought
of the 60s and this will be your art (yeah).

But when your lover leaves you
you discover the clouds in your coffee
and the vortex at the end of the cup
you become obsessed with the void
and you paint your fingernails black, all but one, black –
and this will be your art, she said.

You found one of these glass-prisms
on a flea-market and you use it
to channel the colours into a stream
of stubborn and solid disinterest.

Once, you brought the unfinished things
to your studio and piled them up in a corner.
there it was your installation, finally threatening
to fall and you looked at the friendships
you’ve left behind your families
in different countries there was no other option
or so it seemed at the time then to stop speaking.

Once again, you’re inclined to identify
with the solitary man wandering the streets
of new york roaming an illegal migrant
a serious artist like you but a real person
leading a life you can never live
because you do own a studio
and were born in the midst of a dreamy continent
where life is full of potential 
whose actual weight you do not carry yourself,
blood-lines, indeed.

After all, you’re capable of reproducing
the material feeling of a nightmare
you frequently had as a child. a large white room
with a bed so small stuck far away in a corner.
there you lie try to open your eyes
but all you can do is open one so now
everything atteins monstruos, strangely
distorted proportions and you can see
barely see the dark tiny door
at the other end of the room.