litote_convoluted: art: the bird.
The Bird.
I can’t stand
contemporary poetry
any more than
the old bits,
that rhyme.
Things have gotten quiet,
here.
Art is a dying God.
Prose a declawed
beast,
broken of the
courage
to rattle its
bars.
I’m feeling rather melancholy this morning.
The cat licks herself,
eyes closed,
and outside
people are moving –
in or out,
no one notices.
The peephole is a small thing.
I’d like a window
in this
wall,
a window
everywhere,
all consuming,
one way mirrors,
global
vouyeurism.
I can’t do this
new age shit
anymore.
I am 18,
a college
dropout,
stripper,
whore,
black sheep,
and disappointment.
The letter to my
high school mentor
yielded no
reply,
and was probably
received
by only
misgivings.
Things are weak.
Art is supposed to be
Universal –
beauty a connection to
the
everyman.
The allman.
I would rather be a bird.
I would rather shit
on car windows,
hoods,
porch roofs,
back
patios and
smear my
excrement into
droppling shapes
with blades of grass.
The pieces would have
more meaning,
that way,
I feel,
or at least fewer
commas.
Fewer breaths
to take.
And would be
universally understood.
Sad times,
are these –
realizing one’s
probable audience is
no more than
tired girls,
college drop-
outs, whores
with curly hair,
and the receptive
stares
of graveyard shift
clerks.
Disassociation
is glory,
I think,
and if only
it could be
achieved
without help
from false
prescriptions –
Oh, there would be
Art.
There would be
the Beast
I remember,
the unknowable
and unknown,
still alive and
rattling
with possibility.
But I’ll be a bird,
for now,
and fly lightly
along the edges –
from here I take
only to dabble
and throw
peanuts
into Its
cage.