August 2004

 

Since the Internet I’ve Branched Out

 

Art is not therapeutic, you evolve or die.

It’s 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 that’s 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,

It’s 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 I’ve branched out

I've learned to look this up ahead of time,

Learned to recognize shoes on the bed.

History’s face has a troubled expression.

 

So, Is your place as messy as last time

Clothes from Fredrick's strewn all over?