24 February 2003 -
3:08 p.m.
I find myself thinking about art--accidently like one finds quarters in last Spring's jacket.
I put it on and wonder if the people who laugh at my comedy listen to my poetry?
Is it worth listening to? Or is it just a noncommital hobby? Is it needlepoint? Nice, but average? Is it decoupage?
If I burned like Picasso, breathed flames and tried to ignite the world, would anyone notice, or would they reach for the fire-extinguisher and dampen me? Do I have permission to skydive or fester?
I am armored with essays and special effects, painted with the brightest neon colors and the most neutral grays, and have forgotten the richness and variation of brown. Or maybe it just doesn't fit in the specs any more.
I have become a series of rare explosions on the flattest and most empty expanse of land. I juggle pineapples and defused grenades and drop them on either side of former presidents when they ask me if I am registered to vote.
I do nothing, and I change nothing. I am screaming in Braille., and the ground is rushing toward me faster and faster.
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