It’s easier here, more sensical.

One’s equity can accrue. 

Plus, my condo’s got a great view

of the military parades. 

What more is there to say? 

Having tired of all that scavenging,

those nocturne-documentaries,

the plights and fizzles, the rigmaroles,

I gave it up. I mean, what’s the point?

Does the fly escape the ointment?

Does the troubadour win his coin

if he’s brooding at the bottom

of wells? Why ring rung 

bells? If all poetry is prayer—

hell, toss the nibbled pen 

and fire off the signal flare.

Thoosh! I am done with Art. 

No more weekly scrimmage 

between Apollo and Dionysus.

No more dawn escapades. 

No more tracing the bat-screech

of noumena to its jaded cave.

Only music, not the words.

And don’t write on my grave.

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