Andy Warhol Speaks to His Two Filipina Maids |
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Alfred A. Yuson |
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Art, my dears, is not cleaning up after the act. Neither is it washing off grime with the soap of tact. In fact and in truth, my dears, art is dead
center, between meals, amid spices and spoilage. Fills up the whitebread sweep of life's obedient slices.
Art is the letters you send home about the man you serve. Or the salad you bring in to my parlor of elites. While Manhattan stares down at the soup
of our affinities. And we hear talk of coup in your islands. There they copy love the way I do, as how I arrive over and over
again at art. Perhaps too it is the time marked by the sand in your shoes, spilling softly like rumor. After your hearts I lust. In our God you trust. And it's your day off. |
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