Dear Allen Ginsberg,
I wish you could come back
So you could see these 21st century have-it alls
who think there's always something that lacks..
They say, “Art is a dying field.”
And I wish you could throw
the existential fire at them with,
but,their creation shall live forever.”
At a family dinner I was asked "So you're a writer?!"
The idea gleamed in a color I couldn't see yet.
Yet, my drunk cousin's eyes lit up
He must have seen something
that my 17 years can't.
He saw the possibilities!
And as I drown
in the probabilities
of my starvation rate being higher
than my sunflower salaries
As a flower, naturally
those will wither
then, they will
artists aren't flowers.
constantly watering our own soil,
planting new seeds for every dead plant..
The dead plant is us included.
Ginsberg, we still need you.
Resurrect from the depths you
spent a lifetime delving into..
underground, that's where you are..
that sunflower scepter!!! Make us all come
Why, art hasn't died because it can't be killed
and death would mean it had lived
and that would mean it's something
as fickle as human existence.
..But, tell them!
Tell them “Art lives on even when the humans don't!”
Also, can you tell them we’re not the center of the universe anymore..
let alone our galaxy..
I mean I think there's a reason
the aliens don't want to be our friends.
Allen, you need to see what's goin’ on here.
We go to museums to take pictures of ourselves
looking at art
so the world thinks we have value,
Instead taking pictures of the...
excuse me.. a 2015 flaw..
looking at the art.
long and hard.
like the chronic lifetime it took for the canvas
to get it's own value.
and then see,
endure the value!
Goodness these people,
I can't tell if they're down to earth
or just living too close to it.
Deep on the surface.
Flesh is just flesh
until it uncovers beauty.
These kids don't know art.
Maybe I don't either.
Maybe I'm just a poet
who gets fussy over the world
Maybe Allen, I should tell you
how extraordinary beautiful this world (still) is.
Yes, it's being destroyed.
Yes the humans are still doing our
Awful human things to the animals,
to the land...
to the people of the land
... the people
of other land..
The sun still rises and falls
just to rise and fall all over again.
There’s still laughter
And those who are drawing about it
those who are writing about it
feeling about it!!
Life I mean..
there's still enough for us
to work with.
I write this to you
from my own inky passion
that refuses to refrain from staining
until all the green on this earth is gone
so there will be no more paper
no more life-
But, even then
there will still be underground caves
to carve that all-mighty dying poet’s promise
and it will proclaim:
“Art is not dead.”
Because it isn’t.
..the people are- sometimes.
I think we all exist in the relativity
of life's "sometimes".
But, I reporting to you
the artists are alive.
Maybe we're not well...
(that'd make shitty poetry anyways if you ask me.)
We are here.
For every "dying field"
We have sacred gardens,
where your sunflower forms are kept,
and Picasso and Van Gogh's roots remain.
And we are planting ourselves
and our art in this god damned soil.
Maybe we’ll meet grow to know
one other someday. `