On Art ​

The world is on fire, you shoutas if a prophetic Diogenes, somemirror held to habits. You saidthere was nothing left to do.We’d rot like Plath on the shelf, singingsongs of deceased folk singers—I wonderif they’re driving right now, writingin a journal—injecting dirtycreativity. Heavenly dreamsburnt out when faced withthe rules espoused from allthose gods we were warnedabout—I find myself wishingI believed. An old man died today.Your hands were the fountainsof Love Park or no-named Squarecentered in a Mississippi holewhich we’ll generalize as not to burnany consistent ideologies—wherethe art comes from. Duchamp livesfrom New York and dies in Kansas, a stilllife, assemblage—the world is on fireand the roots only grow in the Metropolitans.You shout. I listen.I burn—I listen.