Pete the Artist

Pete the artist is a bipolar
Schizophrenic in remission,
Who gets supplemental
Security income and money
From his well-off parents
In Cheshire, Connecticut,
Who sent him to Choate
And to Harvard Extension school
So that he could boast of
A Harvard degree in English,
While his parents pay for his
Art studio, art supplies and strokes
Of genius, as he walks around
In his cowboy hat with Native
American feathers, earrings
And numerous rings on his
Fingers, telling everyone
That he works for living—
Pete the artist is really some
Caricature of what art has become,
As he shares his muddled
Abstractions and poetic views
Of the divine transcendence,
Zen, dolphin telepathy, pearls
And the ecstatic revelation
Of the Mayas and the Incas,
With some Gaelic bullshit
Thrown in for good measure,
Where all is majestic and pristine,
Like the Palmolive hands of
Jesus—Pete is a painter, poet,
Photographer, songwriter and
Storyteller, and an egomaniac,
Drunk on Stonehenge and pints
Of Guinness, Irish cliffs and
California surfing, Yeats, Neruda,
Borges, and the superficial
Waitresses at Delaney’s,
Who care more about their tips
Than anything poetic—
But his bullshit is convincing
Enough to fit in with other
Hack writers and unrecognized
Picassos and Jackson Pollocks,
Going through the daily motion
Of creating really bad
Artwork.


  June 18, 2010
--Alexander Shaumyan