Existential Jerky

Art, and Thanksgiving

The thing about a manifesto
is, it’s blind. Because
it joneses to believe  
in single-mindedness,

it does – in that buzzed way
compulsive sex erupts
into a specious All – grunting
to its blunt inevitable fall:

done when
it's no fun:
foregone:
a yawn.

And there you’ll be anon:
the spawn of something
you can’t recollect.
But heck: I’ll stay,

seduce you anyway.
I’ll bang your drum
and strum your heart strings
like a hooker. I’ll be

the looker you’ve been
looking for, cooking zesty
definitions. What is art
and what is not? Here’s

what’s not. Whatever thinks
it is what it’s describing.
Whatever doesn’t know
it has complete autonomy

from its creator. (See you
later alligator.) Whatever
buys its own PR.
Whatever’s not bizarre.

Eschew the turkey.
Chew some existential jerky.
Presto!
Manifesto.




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