There is an intensity in the art and poetry of Glenn Halak which reflects the mask of humanity. His poetry looks deep inside the psyche and is capable of great truth and sincerity. No bullshit, no pretense.
Blank Canvas
The white wall opens
At the first touch of color
All the voices of the dead
Sit along the frame
Swat them like flies
For only the doorway matters
And beyond, the oceans of light
and swirling dark.
Artists’ manuals will tell you how to paint
But your job actually
Is to walk on the waves
Or drown in the bathtub.
Artist’s Reception
You find the critics in the bathroom
Snooping in the medicine cabinet.
When they gossip their words are so heavy
They crash to the floor and leave dents.
It’s best to have a house made of rubber.
Sometimes you see them standing beside paintings
When suddenly they rush back to the bathroom
And scrape their hands clean with hydrogen peroxide
As if they’d just contacted an infectious intimacy.
They believe even their eyelids buzz with brilliance.
If you would bite into them you’d find they taste
Like stale crackers left behind after the party is over.
Crowboats
to The Underworld, by Glenn Halak
