Since the Internet Iíve Branched Out
Art is not therapeutic, you evolve or die.
Itís like knowing suction from seduction.
You just always know the difference
Like getting an I-told-you-so award.
One full chested saxophone blast
Would fix all my broken down days.
My creative sensibility faces extinction
By human beings becoming robots.
I have the performance anxiety of a daffodil.
My music is the misprint of a dark pursuit.
The jazz in my throat is stuck, the bulb
Has gone out, the
trap door warped shut.
Like god I am repulsed by my work
I want to drown it, send out birds for
Clues to its rebirth, and say something
Outrageous over a carside burger.
My girlfriend, the charmeuse de weird,
Likes things that cost money or capture
The fresh taste of smoldering flesh;
Like that world thatís always burning.
You look at me as though I threaten
The return of the plague and I want to
Party like its 1494, syphilis unheard of,
Itís all too bogus to bother me, now.
I have sunk my chi and bowed to the
Universe knowing that none of this
Was in the brochure on neuron fixes,
Bet your upper crustiness on that one.
Since the Internet Iíve branched out
I've learned to look this up ahead of time,
Learned to recognize shoes on the bed.