why?:
it seems i'm only me in sleep,
where we meet in dream at the concrete bottom
of the brodie garage bridge you just jumped from.
who would have ever thought art school could be so sickening,
wearing the werewolf mask, you tuck your shirt in,
you said "it's nice to look like you just stepped out of a movie,"
and sure you look cinematic,
silhouette on the edge of the roof of a car park under the orange sunset sky,
with any empty sketch pad and a werewolf mask.
we always meet too late, after you done did it,
put cracks in concrete fiftt feet from where i first saw you stand.
a pack of little birds peck at your flesh and your monster mask,
as i reach to touch your shoes
to track the trail of where you've been.

the ram's crumpled horn, an empty turle shell.
sunset is an all day process, sunset is an all day process.

we seem to be sinking deeper into a vat of honey glaze, shall we live?
or shall we laminate ourselves into a standard appetizing position?
at school this quarter,
all the supply lists call for reynold's wrap and contact paper,
report covers and lacquer. am i here to something, something,
or start a dead butterfly collection?

william howard taft is appalled that as an artist
i wouldn't want to overindulge in a set of highly toxic
and rare natural pigments or beautiful paper to waste the rainforests with.
but friends, we've no longer a need for glitty masters
who paint gold-leaf babies in the backs of the cathedrals.
and that's a fact, jack.