I sat at a bar listening to experimental instrumental technical music for two and a half hours, and this is what happened.
(17) Ode To A Jaywalker on Third and Indian
You're walking like you've got someplace to be
and maybe you do.
Maybe your life is just brimming with really important shit.
And that's all right,
I mean really,
it's kind of refreshing to meet a guy
who won't be bullied into treating me like I'm the boss,
just because I'm doing 30 in a thousand pounds of steel.
It's great!
I just really hope you don't get squashed,
it'd kind of be a buzzkill...
for both of us.
(18) To the Uninspiring Artists Whose Work Is On Display at the DBA
If I could gather all six of you into one room
for the pep talk of your life,
I would not know where to start...
except to say that you're not finished yet.
I would have to tell you that technique and vision
are the two dimensions of exellence,
two sides of a coin that must both be molded
if you expect your art to be worth anything
(and I don't mean monetarily).
I'd remind myself that I am not any better
(and then I'd remind myself that I'm not trying to sell my sub-par art
for upwards of three hundred dollars, either)--
and I'd think how painful it'd be to hear the same thing;
I'd flash back to the hours upon hours I spent trying to get it right,
only to have my art instructor send me back to work again...
and then I'd remember how much it grew me,
how thankful I was that he believed I could be excellent--
You could be excellent!
You're just not finished yet.
And at some point before they drift away to hate me
or make something of themselves
or both,
I'd find a way to pull aside the artist from the north wall,
whoever you are,
and I'd tell you that you're getting close,
to just push through,
that I can see you're made of bottled visions,
and your fingers just need to master the art of uncorking them.
Don't hold back.
I could've been that close, but I gave up
(we each only have one lifetime)--
you only have one lifetime,
so don't settle for almost excellent.
This is not your ultimate.
You're not finished yet.
(19) Hanging out with Hippies at the DBA
I assume that he's an honest man
because he plays the banjo.
I guess we're all a little
instrumentalist.
(20) Sensory Perception Sensitivity
It's like someone turned up the volume
on texture.
You can't even think about touching anything,
it's too revolting.
Polished pine is almost slimy-smooth,
brick walls are abrasive as sandpaper,
leather feels like smething licking you,
everything plush just wants to suffocate your skin,
wind and water both become rough rivers
waiting to take your skin off,
microscopic layer
by microscopic layer.
Your clothes enclose you just like too-close walls,
at once repressing you, and yet protecting you
from everything else
...except the sweat of your hands;
why can't they stay dry?
Why does it feel like everything is crawling in on you?
And how do you make it stop
when even in your sleep your dreams are this alive?
So if it's true that we're all given amped-up bodies after death,
where the hell are you gonna go to rest from this sensation?
(21) Artwork
Tell yourself that they're just baby-dolls
Tell yourself a thousand newborn lives
aren't left inside of plastic bags to die each day.
Was this supposed to be a statement?
If so,
well stated.
(22) Busted
Your whole world is made of balloons,
and you are a cyborg with needles for fingers.
Now, you could choose to be careful,
you could go in for damage control,
or you could choose to screw it all
and go on a deflation rampage--
take it all down with a bang!
You could reduce the world
to its smallest, most honest components,
find out if there's anything beneath all this hot air,
and then
you could rebuild it better.
(23) How The Myth Started
By the time the knight arrived,
she had already saved herself.
But she appreciated his consideration,
so they decided to say he had done it alone
(after all, it made it that much easier
to justify the fruition of their mutual attraction
to The Patriarchy).
After the wedding,
she always let him open all the pickle jars
because he liked to.
And he always let her dump the trash
and mow the lawn
because she liked to.
Neighbors who happened to pass by on these occasions felt quite sorry for her.
She appreciated their consideration.
No comments:
Post a Comment