I found my mailbox full
of junk I did not need
and inside a letter hid
that I felt I should read.
I shifted through the fashion trash
and notifications about crime
and opened up the letter
that said it was about time.
Change my future ways, it said.
Leave the idiots behind.
Get off nonsense road
and follow my kind.
But I cannot take that leap
or abandon art.
It’s what I have to do
to fulfill my part.
This is the world I’m part of.
I’ll never leave this spot.
It means nothing to like math,
in apparel I’ll rot.
____________________________________________________________________
Song by Randall Mann
I found my muster station, sir.
My skin is patent leather.
The tourists are recidivists.
This calm is earthquake weather.
I’ve used up all the mulligans.
I’d kill to share a vice.
The youngster reads a yellowed Oui.
The socialite has lice.
The Europe trip I finally took
was rash and Polaroid,
was gilt, confit, and bathhouse foam.
And I cannot avoid
the end: I will not die in Paris,
won’t rest for good behind
a painted mausoleum door.
The purser will not find
me mummified beneath your tulle,
and Paris will not burn.
Today is Thursday, so I’ll die.
Come help me pick my urn.
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