Call upon the
powers and
prowess of all the
dead artists
Lift this up, past the
eight stare ways where looks
penetrate in
disgust
I wish that you could have been there to see what happened that
warm night
Fear; in your
malcontent mind lead you to give it up
Now
God is
banging around in a
jar like a
moth
The
jar sitting in the corner will never help anybody
Intuition, past it’s time like a
black banana just a little too ripe to eat
Because being
easy,
honest and
free was never that easy
Abstinence of your
mirth
All the
laughter that was forced damns you like a
failed and
fallen bonsai tree
It requires
fantastic devotion to keep it moving
Making the
fear grow into tiny and hard little
capsules like
pills
Popping the
pills, in your mouth
The
pistons rise and fall and scream for
oil with sour smelling
smoke and
screeching
Making the
lift go to the
eighth floor right past the room where a
mason jar sits on a
milk crate near a beam of
light
Fatalism to spare,
bottom heavy because the roots can only be as large as the
exultation of the
branches
Standing in the hallway, it’s dark except for the
dust motes that hang in the
beams of light
Darkness, now I’m eating and it tastes like ashes
Damn, it’s uncomfortable in this
heat
Willing and
unwilling I lead myself to the
gas chamber and adjust my
collar
They said I could choose
So, I gave it back to all the
dead artists