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It's more a shit-filled existence
when one believes in art. "Where do
you go to be alone my love?"
You'll see what I mean.

"I like you man," he says to me,
"You've got SOUL. You're one of the
few white dudes I know who's got that
SOUL."

Chicago soul? N'awlins soul! You see!
I must go to where this soul
can be eaten alive. Can you pack
my brain inside a little suit-
case? I'll take care of the rest of me,
and fit it into this
brand new leopard-skin pill-box hat container.
That gives me enough room,
but let my brain suffocate, so
as to have it not change my mind later on.
As you know, there lurks a joy
in pleasing others that envelopes
our preoccupations. (Same even say
stupidity's the host. Maybe I'll
believe them when I'm stupid
someday).

Will you sell this my story
great woman to the front page
news? Will you sell this great
woman my story to the judge
and trigger-happy cardigan farmers?
I trust you'll seek vengeance
on what I've left unscathed.
"dum-buh-tch." Nope, snare
first. So long Winona.

Hello. I'm the mayor of Artville,
and I'm the other narrator of this poem:

The suit-case and Dylan-rip-off
are lowered into the Mississippi,
and float south. Then there's a rabid
fiend. He jumps out at you from the
kangaroo's birth pocket, needle and
spoon in hand. A camp fire awaits his
landing on the left, "Huddie pick
me a bail of cotten!" The atomic
plume rises though his shiny
boots of leather as the spectators
ketchup and mustard their hotdogs
expecting an afternoon ball-game.

"I've made it," Adam says excitedly,
"Hey! Somebody has stolen this poem!"
He looks to the sky.
"Stop that!" he shouts, "Damn you, I
knew you'd do this someday," as giant
ice stalactites of death pummel his surroundings.
"Hmm, quite a cliché for such a twisted
one as yourself, I would say," he says as
the people on the street gather to watch
him talk to apparently nothing.