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State of the Art by John C. Erianne
published in Volume 6, Issue 4 on December 31st, 1999

They told me to write
about nature
but the fire beat
me to the forest
when I arrived there
was nothing but black
smoke and ruined stumps
of redwood.

They told me to write
about love but when
I went to her she told
me she was made of glass
the lapdance ended when
the money did and I left.
head down, sticky stains on
my crotch.

So they told me to write
about language, but the metaphors
became mixed like a can of party
nuts and there are only so many
ways you can say shit about
poetry anyway.

So I tried to write about politics
but Ginsberg was gone and
the revolution had started without
me-- (didn't Nikki G. prophesy this?)
Robert and the Pinskyites dropped
their pens, armed themselves with
assault rifles, but they kept
missing the goddamn target.
The acolytes of Bukowski had
lost the spellbook and couldn't
raise him from the dead.

The only thing left was
to write about my hate,
but hatred is like having
a full-time job- too many
hours and the pay really blows.
So I think I'll take a long nap,
instead.

Wake me when it's over.

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