commercialized sandals
happy endings men search out in massage parlors and rock stars comfort me with mean i can’t wash out, hollowed out by crashing waves of surreality and lose my mother’s love. when Dylan asks me how i feel i know his infectuous, drug infested memory lacks nothing but math for his multi million finances and the words to his first folk single. he plugs in, asks me to trade up sandals and says i’m a drag while i pull good times rolled, drag myself. Ginsberg growls at fellow fags to suck hard enough to labotamize, or blow strong enough to yield blown minds with room for new memories, born to breed with Dylan’s and Stein’s and Angelou’s. Billy Name lines the Factory with foil to shine back his convoluted image, to prism the brilliant minds creating and destroying in the hallowed space, playing pagan gods. i feed this art, growing into a strong adult that preaches reality in a slow, steady drawl from a black pulpit, with no fear of a revolting congregation of fanged sheep. i fear my own worth in this calling, as tiny luxuries cradle me, sitcoms and hip hop about diamond teeth coddle me to sleep and closed eyelids gaze on a readily available sunrise my parents paid fifty grand for. i wake up, Dylan’s emptiness fills me and i see Billy’s foiled face in the mirror while Warhol and Reed whisper future doctrines in the background of my apartment and i ask if i can really see myself in the twinkle of a needle. i wonder if i can play in the reality bubble with the big boys for longer than a trip while government officials remove my fingernails and the crutched heretics of religion burn me with cigarettes they refuse to smoke, demanding information on a happy world. i hope to endure the torture of real pain and spit out the same news that shuould slide by on every crawl, “Everything is getting worse.”
