"What's so smart about a heart without art?"
Certain Stratospheres

Whether it's a song,
or a painting, or
a poem,

In order to do it right,
you need to be
immersed

Completely 

In a real and dreamlike
world.

Immersion can't be dialed
in.

It can't be ordered like a
subordinate

Or a bag of living
fries

Fleeing from the flies

Playing the common
organ

At the morgue's
post

Modern-mortem
drive-thru.

If the muse is
hot,

You're either
in it, 

Or you're not.

Both are successful
outcomes,

But if the muse does
not make collect 

Calls to your soul at
random,

Resist the temptation to
patronize those for whom
immersion in a work of 

Art is not a hobby.

That's a jealous power move,
and is indicative of someone
who seeks to subjugate
the heavens,

To bring Everest
to the masses.

Not by climbing it
and telling the story,

But by nuking the peak,
reducing the freak to
common

Marbles,
and selling the byproduct
in a radioactive

Vending machine,
a fabricated

Crock of punk-rock
youth,

A bending machine of truth.

So quit while you're still not
behind.

Choose an honorable
death.

The last thing the world
needs

Is another weakened
warrior.







10.20.26