Andy Warhol paints the 59th Street Bridge
over and over in fluorescent blood Art leaps
from every vibrant panel into the neoprine river below

Bridges and water
Bridges and water
Art is nothing if not repetitive

Every night the lovely little sparrow comes to
peck out his vocal cords
as The Real Housewives of Bleeker Street
rolls across his retinas
No matter what your Spotify playlist tells you
Art does not shuffle but
        dangles like a conversation from the precipice
                                                                    of the mortal coil
                          pondering his exit
as another book of Twilight fan fiction
enters the NYT Best Seller list

Art would rather be MC Hammer than a snail
Yes he would
If he only could be comfortable
in the baggy pants of obscurity
rather than building himself
permanent residence in the hard shell of resentment

The rumors of Art’s death at the hands of poetry slam have been
exaggerated as Paul McCartney’s
                            as The Buggles’ forecast of their relationship
                            between MTV and radio
                            as journalism’s obituary in the folding
                                                                                  of newspaper corporations

Art survives every spoiled Canadian Teenage Pop Star
                            every bigoted comedian with delusions of divinity
                            every comic artist who can’t draw feet
While Paul Simon might be cut down by friendly fire
                                                                                  at the Sarlac Pit
Art will survive

                                   past purely conceived covers
                                   past surgery on swelled shut vocal cords
                                   past punchline
                                   past punchline

Art is the Wolverine of 20th century pop culture
              shrugging off bullet wounds with a lit cigar and a one-liner

It’s been forty-five years since Art was supposed to disappear
                   thirty-five years since his name became laugh track cliché

You can’t kill Art
no matter the weapon
At eighty-two years old
it may not be too much longer
before Rolling Stone dot com posts the following headline
“Garfunkel is dead. Love live Art.”

I found my legs in the silverware drawer
this morning where the spoons used to be

We haven’t had utensils in four evicted roommates
                                                          seven heartbreaks
                                                          three hundred forty-seven thousand
                                                                                          November Rains

Last night I saw the alibi under the bed
slicing up the living room rug with my legs
I saw him because he was wearing my eyes like earrings

My body hasn’t been fashionable since I was born
perhaps I’ve been wearing it wrong

My alibi dances as though he knows my intentions
better than I ever have
If there is a name for this dance
It isn’t mine

I have forgotten how to name things: emotions
                                                                                pets
                                                                                the people who name things

Tonight I am feeling Diet Coke flat
It’s the knowing that I am an improperly arranged potato head
That some drunk nature built me
with a foot in my mouth hole
and I didn’t notice until someone pulled my legs off

A bullfrog flew the moon into my shirt pocket
when i was born Slow glowing heartbeat

When i turned eleven and my voice went walkabout
My mother tried to convince me the frog
had climbed into my throat Her eyes kaleidoscope
pretending telescope Faulty stethoscope ears

Where my voice echoed back needs no atlasing

My body didn’t extend like a metaphor
but i kept footnoting my youth like
someone’s going to major in my autobiography

Cliff notes for the autobiography of a swallowed frog pilot
crash landed in a fictional pocket:
Fuck rabbits
Trees are infinite ladders of gin smelling future napkins
                     so much mud
Four years saving fly corpses until they fluttered into spaceship

Fuck gravity
navigating around bovine gymnasts and fiddling cats
I caught the moon bobbing in space’s wake

Moon as handkerchief
Moon as party dress
Moon as moon in unfamiliar galaxy
There are so many moons in the universe

The frog’s moon wasn’t local
You haven’t seen it

Frogs in throats are myths
They settle in livers

Frogs for hearts
Rabbits for libido
 
Fuck the moon
The frog’s greatest achievement
was beating Super Mario Brothers 3 in fifteen minutes
Swallowing moons is so 1991

My voice’s greatest achievement was a three
month vacation in a stranger’s ear
The only parts of our bodies we ever shared

A bullfrog flew my shirt into an ex’s closet
It didn’t fit me anymore anyway

The bullfrog hits eject like a spacebar on an old typewriter

Fuck my mouth
Galaxy of awkward images
Uvula echo Uvula unreliable narrator Uvula promise
echo Good intentions Uvula Mint flavored swamp water

Fuck my lips Uvula echo frog legs
Fuck fuck
Ribbit
Fuck achievements

If the moon is a heart
there is too much bullfrog in it

The myth of my heart as satellite is a lie
perpetrated by Lenny Kravitz and Slash
like everything they wish was hurled into the vacuum of space
they named my heart Axel
Uvula Echo Ribbit

I’ve never known where my voice is
in realation to my heart

We were twenty-three when Susan told Dave
she wished she could go out with him but
she didn’t date college students
just musicians
so Dave dropped out of Genie School to join the Bottle Rockets

Like most mediocre genie rock musicians
Dave played bass

Our first gig was at The Paradise
but like most mediocre rock bands we wished for bigger shows
                                                                                                           more fame
                                                                                                           better groupies

Nothing was ever enough arena
The cover of Rolling Stone didn’t show off enough of our fingers
I told Dave all I ever wanted was for us to feel content
The only one who benefited from my wish was Dave’s dealer

Halfway through our second national tour
Eric woke up hung over and freckled with needle bites
         turned to Dave and said I wish I was dead
Everyone cringed

I am a terrible wish maker
Desire — my fourth language
Spine — a staircase to my brain
My heart travels by wheelchair
I was barely fast enough to say
Eric I wish you hadn’t said that
 
We were on our fifth drummer
when Eric
                         still semi-alive
                         crumbled a fist full of scars
                         popped them into his choke and said I wish
and Dave shut Eric’s mouth with his own

There is so much silence that hangs on an unnamed desire
Eric couldn’t speak in front of Dave for fifteen years

The thing about genies is that
they only live forever with proper training

Without a degree or a lamp
genies who grant wishes rarely live past forty

The doctor called Dave’s slow fade into smoke
                                                                           starvation
His biographer would
                                                 decades later
                                                 refer to it as delayed
                                                                             spontaneous combustion

On his deathstretcher
after we all said our simple goodbyes
Eric pressed his lips to what was not yet smoke and
whispered Don’t ever leave me
​
This is why Eric cries constantly and coughs in his sleep