“BEFORE HE COULD MAKE IT”

Artists with no concern
for the human condition
inevitably make love
to an electrical outlet,
plugging themselves in
and networking
with a world full of
power, but not much
life. In fact,
looking at their pale
expressions,
you might marvel
that they ever lived;
that they ever loved;
that they ever fucked—
to become such a fucker.

You might wonder
about these overgrown
school boys
hauling about so much
pomp and pretense
in self-celebratory boasts.
The degrees, certificates,
letters to the editors,
dates and locations.
The year they were born.
These guys seem to think
that
they need these notches
to defend
that their communication,
human to human
is somehow operating
higher in the clouds
than ours.
And maybe they’re right.
I think that grad school
did
set them apart.
And I hope they stay
moving up,
up far,
far away from me.

Not everyone needs degrees
to call it art.
At the ballpark,
we all piss in the same pan.
Nobody cares
if you’re calling your urine canary
or goldenrod instead of yellow.
Nobody cares
if you’re considering what mix of cadmium
might compare to this trough swept color.
Nobody cares
if you’re pretending not to notice
the superior peter beside yours—
and the way his stream is carving out
the face of Christ in the urinal cake.
Can you keep from asking
him
if he is familiar with the work of Andres Serrano?

“What the fuck did you say to me,”
he’ll say, turning,
and
pissing on your leg.

Put your dick away.
Nobody cares.
Put it away,
show off.
Nobody cares
and they’re not going to begin caring
outside of your tiny little circle jerk in
NYC
or
RISD
or
SAIC,
but you can be certain to
STFU
while you
GFY
far, far, far
away from here.
BTW,
after you
GTFU,
you’re welcome
to join the rest of us down here
on earth,
where the perception of clouds
only matters to the trees and the flowers.

narrative poem written on 11-27-2012 by: on mattkane.com
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