Variations on the Death of Art Garfunkel

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.”