Even Art?

Believe in nothing.
Even art.

Chapter IV

In a greasy spoon cafeteria, I take stock of my situation. I briefly ponder the pandemonium in my head and seriously consider aborting this trip altogether.

I am falling in and out of love with the waitress as I peruse the menu and wonder which way is up. I am hopelessly, fearlessly, head-over-heels when she cuts into the key lime pie... sickeningly alone and black-hearted, watching as she refills the coffee maker... love-sick as a secret book of poems while she wipes down the lunch counter and finally I’m in the throes of dejected depression as she comes to take my order.

This behaviour, I assume to accurately surmise, is no way out. Of course, this is no way in either, so in the interest of inertia and remaining true to all the truths of the cosmos, I shall carry on.

Enter, Mr. M.R. Yao, Esq.

The Joke Is On Him.

Leo Cooper is searching through bins of dusty LPs
At the used record store in my head.

He is looking for copies of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass' "____________________".

The used record store is in my head.
I can make anything happen here.

So I stop time,
Remove all Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass records,
"____________________" or otherwise,
Set them on fire in the middle of the store
And restart time.

Leo Cooper is befuddled.
One could say he is dumbfounded.
I would say the joke is on him.

Leo Cooper storms out of the used record store in my head
And I spend the night warming my hands
Over Herb Alpert's smoldering ruins.

The Very Next Mourning.

There is another me
Somewhere.
Out there.
And he spoke to me
In my head.
I was on a Greyhound bus.

He had a very confusing,
Yet ultimately believable explanation
About how all this was happening.

At the next stop
I changed my ticket
To include a stop
In my other self's hometown.

I'm getting
To the bottom.
Of.
This.

Paranoid Love Song #4.

You have always reminded me
Of that greatest ever
Sub
Atomic
Particle.

You are two different things
Dependant,
Bizarrely,
On my perspective.

Without you,
There shall be no light.

Without you,
Where would the grand forces of electromagnetism start
And end?

The universe is judged
In accordance with your
Velocity.

But what happens to you
When the switch
Is turned
Off?

Surely, you must be joking.

The Night I Saw Emil Zátopek Get a High Score On Q*Bert.

Emil Zátopek had a stack of quarters
As high as three joysticks.
He was, as usual, a man on a mission.

Was this Emil Zátopek's first time?
Could he do it all again?
Would I bear witness to greatness?

So I asked him.
"Emil Zátopek," I said,
"Should I be taking pictures
Or something?"

"@!#?@!?", said Emil Zátopek.

Of Morning.

Not knowing how to plan a funeral,
How to dispose of assets,
How to inform family members,
Friends,
Acquaintances.
None of it.

I bought a ticket
On a bus
Bound for the middle
Of nowhere.

And left the details
To the state.

There will be no requiem.

In Which Louis Riel Goes Visiting and Gets Into a Tight Place.

Last night, in the alley behind my apartment building, Louis Riel got his hand stuck in the dumpster.

The dumpster, of course, is padlocked to discourage any misdemeanor behaviour,
Like taking garbage.
Or adding garbage.

I heard moans of not quite agony coming from the leader of the Red River Rebellion
And went
To investigate.

I was only wearing gym shorts
And bathroom slippers.
It was a thick,
Hot,
Muggy night.
A real cicada summer.

Louis Riel! I called.
How'd you get all caught up in that dumpster?

Louis Riel! I added.
Can I call you Dave?

Louis Riel had some cockamamie story about trying to dispose of a baggie full of dog poop.
But I didn't see any dog.
And why not just drop the so-called baggie full of dog poop in the trash can on the corner?
Eh, Louis Riel?

Stop right there, Dave! I said to Louis Riel.
You know, I continued,
If my mother happened to be 125 years old
She would have been born
On the day
Of your
Execution.

Think about that, Dave.
Think about that.

Goodbye, Dr. Jukes.

No One Reads My Poetry Blog.

No one reads my poetry blog.
And there's some decent shit
On there.
Epic fucking poems.
Cry your eyes out shit,
If you ask me.

I was going to change
The theme
Of my poetry blog.
I was going to change
My blog
Into a sports fan blog.

Amateur analysis.
Ardent bravado.
Loud-mouthed bluster.

But then I got a secret
Note,
In the guise of a comment,
Under one of my best
Poems.
Ever.

It was a request,
From the Soviet Union.
The U.S.S. fucking R.
The secret police.
The goddamn KGB.

Codes.
Messages.
Embedded in these lines.
Verses.
Stanzas.
Et cetera.

No problem.
I'll do it.
I don't owe this
Society
Nothing.

There are drunken parakeets
In Banja Luka
Tonight.

Lynn Peak, solo mission. 18/03/10

Me and Marx Together in a Hot Tub.

I met Karl Marx in the hot tub at my community centre pool,
Last week.
I was shocked, but I've come to expect
The unexpected.
I asked Karl Marx about Das Kapital,
Then I made a Groucho joke.

Karl Marx looked at me like I was an asshole.
But I was just being friendly.

I told Karl Marx
That I had been thinking
About creating
My own
Manifesto.

Karl Marx got up,
Toweled off,
And left without saying good-bye.

Of Night.

The old man was dead,
When I got home.
But I thought he was sleeping,
So I went to bed.
Left him in his easy chair,
To rot.
Or fester.
Or just sit there,
Until tomorrow afternoon.