Hell Week,
They call it.
So busy.
Things to do.
Papers to write.
Tests to take.
Experiments to execute.
Plans to make.
Things to do.
So busy.
I walk through the museum
And look for apocalyptic horses.
When they appear in the dark
I stand to the side
And make notes about color and brushstrokes,
Ignoring everything I’d like to say,
Because if there is one thing I have learned
This semester
It is that no one has anything worthwhile to say about art.
Then downstairs to type type type
To write write write
And then across the room,
You look like Emile Hirsch.
You are wearing a stupid hat
A dressy shirt.
A glossy black vest.
And, like a pompous asshole,
You are in the members lounge at an art institute.
But, like a pompous asshole,
I am in the members lounge at an art institute.
I didn’t pay for mine.
You have the beard
The eyebrows
The eyes.
Like Emile Hirsch
When he was pretending to be Alexander Sumpertramp
Who was Christopher McCandles disguised from himself.
Would you be
Could you be
Tick Tick Tick
I took your seat
But you didn’t notice
Because you were already gone.
