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The authorities

Picasso, the learned curator said,
carried a revolver loaded with blanks
And he’d shoot at you, the smiling curator said,
just for being a bore

Art for art’s sake— so useless
It’s just about color and sound
and language that ends around itself and around—
Nature alone, we feel, does this better

So yes, I’ve been hurt before, a lot
So yes, my dear, forgive me, dear
if I don’t just jump in and immediately
adore everything about you

When I walked past them this morning
there were no flowers, not a flower, on that tree
Now it’s a tree full of flowers and I want to know—
If I stood here all day, would I have seen them grow?

The authorities hounded him down
until he was too poor, too weak,
too confused, to live
His inexorable solitude in death

A freeze of identical Brooks Brother’s men
march up, march down the set, symmetrical avenues
Up and down they went throughout the fifties, the sixties…
What about them, their fortunes, now?

For those of us who drown in a dream
of modern life don’t you realize who I am?
Hey, they don’t realize who I am—
Some sad confusion of the felt and the obvious

Their chasms denied, gained, detained, deterred
Their curved vessels crowd into the arrows of time
The challenge, the charm, dear girl, is to wear
your breathtaking, intimidating, erudition lightly

Say hi, now, to the barbarians from Long Island
Here they are, like some kind of mean historical accident
Their interests, we note, include fast food, violent
athletics, suburban houses and their fucking cars

His assumptions were false, even meaningless
Yet, he made much of them—
a whole career of them, nevertheless
His ignorant, bloody projections

Even those shit southern guards will die
So even the shittiest authorities, like them, should know
that when a man is in the last hectic, historic,
nauseous final throes of sickly dying

(That sinking worried feeling
To think, to know, someone you care about
can’t really care for himself and is alone—
to know he’s in trouble)

Even their barbaric god-soaked, Jesus loving
little brains should know (those authoritarian assholes)
that it’s at best redundant, all too circular, all too stupid,
stupid and useless, to shackle me to this bed

 

 

 

-April 25, 2015-