Saturday, February 16, 2008

Art. [Beat]

My writing and I found ourselves
standing in the queue,
at the door of a popular club.

There were others,
some had brought
their art,
their photos,
their sculptures,
their poetry,
their illusions,
their tricks,

there were even critics.

It was a happening,
man.

I'm sorry,
you can't come in like that,
said the door man,
gesturing at my writing.

Oh.

Should I change?
My writing asked.

No, I said,
fuck this guy.

Don't change.

I like you,
you make me happy,
and that's all that matters,

baby.

So we walked
down the street
together,
found a nice quiet bar,
and drank whiskey together
until the sun arrived,
chasing
the pretentious stars

from the sky.

My writing and I.

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