The following is a poem that I wrote for an experimental video installation when I was twenty-seven.  At the time, I was dealing with some vanity issues, regarding getting older.  I am particularly proud of this work, but to date I have never recited it publicly.  I am posting it here, because I feel it deserves greater exposure.  This is written entirely from memory:

Haunted by headaches, a day spent in bed makes him shame for his age as he grumbles away.
Clinging to vanity, his one thread of sanity. If man enough he might just bring on decay.

His back’s a disaster. His posture has mastered the art of conforming to gravity’s plan.
His spine has kyphosis and slight scoliosis. He hunches like some sort of primitive man.

He sees geriatrics cruise malls with their back’s sticking out past their shoulders which cradle their ears.
They hunch and they shrink, and his hunch is to think that his body will look worse than theirs in three years.

Now pushing thirty, he’s skinny and dirty. The boy asks a question: “Am I not man?”
At best he’s an ape with no plan to escape, for he knows: making God laugh means making a plan.  

He fears the commitment and all of that shit meant for monkeys and cartoonish stereotypes.
His principal crutches are shaky, and such as he knows where he’s wrong–can’t tell where he goes right.

Regardless, he goes. The lobe of his ear grows a singular hair like a piano wire.
He plucks it and chucks it, and each month his luck shits that singular hair out for him to admire.

That’s sarcasm, really. His peers find him silly, or childish, or novel–a cute waste of time.
For they walk erectly and therefore suspect he will ever be lost in the tar-pit of time.

The bend in his trunk–he is some breed of monkey with one great big hump he cannot overcome.
He refutes evolution as not his solution while those all around him perceive him as dumb.

Responsibly minded, he finds that his mind isn’t kind to a notion–he cannot regard
himself as a grown-up. Regardless he’s thrown up a wall of composure to soften the barbs…

Of the oafish and witless who make up his shit list as living examples of who not to be.
The grown-ups they’ve shown up to make themselves known, but in knowing them what can he get that ain’t free…

Or disposable still? Yet he’s bending his will, though it kills him and all for the sake of a name.
Adulthood that traps him; his arms that collapse in exhaustion can’t shoulder the weight of his shame.

He will not evolve and he cannot resolve to involve his emotions to end up in vain, so sometimes he thows shit, ’cause deep down he knows it is simpler to catapult dung than complain…

When sold-out idealists, who call themselves realists, know lifelong decisions are catch as catch can.
With passive expression and massive aggression–“If art’s not your bag than get out of it, man!”

He sees the creators as appropriators, faking and making divine golden calves.
Himself not excluded, revealing his nude id and ego in vain makes him cry when he laughs.

Biding his time, he now thinks he can rhyme, and a God is required where an ape just won’t do. And though time must bind him, he seeks to remind them that God made man, but a monkey supplied the glue.

So there it is.  I was knee-deep in graduate school when I wrote this, and it had a lot to do with dealing with a bunch of fevered egos.  It reflects a pain that I often deal with (and I think, to a degree, is implicit in my life as an artist), which is feeling like a child among grown-ups.  I had a real love/hate relationship with higher education.  Though I value my schooling, I do often wonder if I’d do it again (assuming I had a time machine and all).

I feel that this articulates who I am in a way that I haven’t been able to do otherwise.  This was an important piece in my body of work.  I will try to upload the (virtual) video installation if possible.

This entry was posted on Saturday, October 18th, 2008 at 12:05 am and is filed under Artwork. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

One Response to “De-eeveeo”

  1. Mike D Says:

    Secretly hated you for this one. It’s no Prehistoric Panther, but it’s effin good. “Sold-out idealists, who call themselves realists…”. C’mon that’s great.

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