His guts twisted into a taut knot of frustrated disgust
At human stupidity. "Sometimes I wonder," he grumbled
To himself, so as not to disturb the two-legged cattle
That plodded dumbly through his studio,
"What demon possessed me to pick up
This God-cursed chisel in the first place.
Jehovah is said to have shaped the universe in six days.
I've spent three years working to wrest an image
Out of this stubborn block of marble."
He paused to use his sleeve to wipe the sweat
From his forehead. A bitter, thin smile
Creased his face as he consoled himself grimly.
"Of course, it's easier to shape clay
Than it is the unforgiving hardness of stone."
Two young boys were peering in at him, pausing
In mid-play to watch him labor for some moments.
But a sculptor works slowly.
It's as tedious to watch as it is tiring to the artist.
His arms felt as though some strange incantation
Had given their life to the statue
And had turned their sinew to stone.
A soldier's life looked far more exciting.
The boys picked up their wooden swords
And charged off to storm a Venetian breastwork.
Two shepherds straggled into his studio,
Bedraggled fellows who had travelled to Florence
To flee the scent of sheep, to get drunk,
To loose their manhood at "The Carnivale de Amore."
"It looks as big as I was last night," one boasted,
Pointing at the stone penis of the shepherd
Who was beloved of God.
"Bullshit," the other bellowed, poking his companion
A good one in the ribcage.
"It looks a lot more like a horse's cock."
They left in search of more carnal adventure,
Having paid their homage to art.
In swept the mayor with his retinue of sycophants
Following close enough behind him to feel the breeze
When he breaks wind.
"Can't you pick up the pace of this project a bit,
Buonarroti?" he demanded, with that air
Of self-importance that one acquires with an office.
"It would reflect positively on my term as mayor
To have this thing in place before the upcoming election."
As he spoke, his his boot-licking lackeys crooned their chorus
Of agreement. Michelangelo silenced them with the look
That would someday grace his formidable figure of Moses.
He set his mallet down and reached for his wineskin.
Red liquid trickled down his chin, similar to the rivulets
Of blood that would sometime spring from a cheek
That had been pierced by a small sliver of marble,
Tiny shards that would spring forth to avenge
The assault on their parent stone.
More intruders. He picked up his maul,
But paused to listen for their reaction.
Two stableboys were swapping rude suggestions
About his figure's slender buttocks.
He restrained his urge to hurl his chisel
In the direction of their laughter.
Earlier this morning a Vatican representative
Had paid him a visit, accompanied
By more disciples than Jesus.
"Just checking to see if your David conforms
To Old Testament details," he wheezed sanctimoniously.
The day before it had been the Florentine Garden Club.
"Flowers live and breathe," its chairman had whined.
"What life can you find in a chunk of rock."
How could he explain to those who would not see
That the rendition of his vision would last ages longer
Than one riotous summer of color.
They were blind to all but their own conception of beauty.
A pompous clearing of a throat "harrumphed" another trial.
Michelangelo turned to face it with his angriest glare.
Now the Department of Transportation had sent him
Two nuisances to try his already departed patience.
They were checking their figures to make certain
That the pedestal that his David would be placed upon
In all his marble majesty, conformed to regulations,
That it wouldn't impede the smooth flow
Of cart traffic, and that it could withstand a collision.
The bald-headed cretin with the double-chin
Was bemoaning the size of the capital outlay.
"It's a lot of money to spend on a rock," he muttered,
Glaring at the artist as if he were to blame.
"A grant from the Medici Foundation's a possibility,"
His aide suggested in a bureaucrat's expressionless monotone.
"Yeah, Lorenzo the Magnificent. He's a sucker for art projects."
They laughed. The generous patron was just a cow to be milked,
Another resource to be plundered.
The artist gripped his chisel as though
It was a bureaucrat's neck and struck it hard.
His thoughts were heating to a forge-hot resentment
That his genius could be held hostage by such cloddish
Cliques of literal-minded, regulation-enslaved,
Unimaginative, pot-bellied dolts.
In his mind he became the mighty Samson
As he strained to pull their temple down upon them.
Then he gazed up at his creation
And felt a sudden surge of pride.
Silently, he thanked the God that had given him the mind
That could see the figure imprisoned within the stone
That was begging to be released.
Yes, he guessed that he could put up with the simpletons,
The uncultured rabble and the rude, overbearing bureaucrats
For awhile longer. He could even forgive
The gaggle of servant girls that had shyly slipped in
To gape at his young warrior's genitals.
Yes, to extract the image of the muscular young David
From that block of discolored stone, was almost
As great a feat as the young shepherd's victory
Over the Philistine giant.
He set down his tools to stare in awe
At the stubborn stone that he'd coaxed to life
With the breath of his creative genius.
Looking at his masterpiece, he had a moment's inkling
Of the exhaustion and pride that God Almighty himself
Must have felt toward the evening of the sixth day.
Let the bureaucrats bask in their petty moments.
He sensed that his name would live on forever.
Long after their names have long been forgotten,
Long after their pious pronouncements
Have ceased to be relevant, and long after
Their vision statements have crumbled into dust.
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