Initially the objective was insurgent art as Ferlinghetti taught
But now I find myself subjecting my Apple-bred oeuvre to hourly cleansings of anything not found on the Pitchfork 500
And abandoning my remaining traces of rhythm due to choice clippings from the advice columns of a cyberpunk yet drab graffiti wall
By aping the bourgeoisie, I surrender my identity-cum-idiosyncrasies.
The poetry recital quivered when after I delivered a stream of hymns
You awoke, half-conscious, following my act to murmur the words of your hooker
And categorized my works into the “interesting” shed
Poetry is my compass, is it yours?
Unlike me, you seem violently lost
We rarely hear directly from you, but from your constant recurrences in the Tribune,
It’s safe to say you’re doing well.
Fresh from my primal score and already my brain is a syringe for millions of undercharted facts
Though admittedly none of them are the ones that would benefit me on a midterm examination
The time has arrived for me to inject the revolution’s blueprints into my generation
A generation whose final shard of insurgelinquency was recently commercialized
If we all were no longer reminded on a daily basis about how to distinguish red from green, a surprisingly high number of us would be nailing up Palin
But now is the time for generational redemption
The blueprints will be on my computer desk in my apartment tonight.
Popeye Squirm 