They had impressions in their minds

that smashed the world of art as it was known.

Renaissance perfectionism started an angry

revolution which ripped the canvas and heart

of the mad artist, only to produce spectacular

slices of real life that, when I have the pure

pleasure of looking at, jump off the canvas

and become one with the universe.

I stand in front of the Irises and one by one

tears run down my cheek.

And all of a sudden, as if someone had died,

I burst into uncontrollable sobs.

The blues, the violets, the greens, the whites,

the strokes, thick, deliberate.

The intensity, the pain, the torment,

the strokes, thick, deliberate.

The violets, the blues, the whites,

the delusions, the genius, the greens,

the strokes, thick, deliberate,

looking like he pushed them there arbitrarily,

piling layer upon layer,

so that my eyes could touch the blues, the greens,

the strokes, thick, deliberate, the pain.

He cut off his ear, for Christ's sake!

For the love of a woman.

He was put away in a mental institution.

But still he painted, he created beauty.

He created, he created, he created.

He took the beauty of his tortured soul

and adorned a canvas with it.

Sometimes when there is a starry, starry night,

I look up and remember Vincent,

and imagine that starry night as he saw it,

with the intensity behind his eyes

and the passion in his heart.