Did you hear the one about the Fountain?
You know, that bathroom furnishing-turned-art that was quickly snatched from public view because some found it "offensive, immoral, and repulsive?"
The one that has a jumbled history?
R. Mutt--my mother in German
R. Mutt--Richard Mutt bought the fountain
R. Mutt--a French cartoon reference
R. Mutt-- modification of the name of the plumbing company
What really happened?
A mystery of history.
A beautifully complex objet trouvé, turned on its side to find new meaning.
Art is in the eye of the beholder.
Art is necessary, thus the necessary is art.
For a start.

Cruisin' the highway of life
Nothing can get in my way
Radio up, tunes I adore
I couldn't ask for anything more

Suddenly, I start to swerve
Euphoric poison jostles my nerves
I'm losing control, and I can't feel
Somebody please take the wheel

It started as a bit of fun
The race unfinished I had won
Soon enough I'd sense false glory
Would I live to tell my story?

Somebody catch me, I'm falling
Harsh realities now appalling
Don't you know I could be bawling
Instead these words I'm duly scrawling

A million projects unfinished
Sense of time diminished
Sentiments overdue
Self-assuredness gone askew

Perhaps the most productive time
Still I would rather be just fine
Than pacing, racing, sleep deprived
Just glad I made it out alive

In the midst of all this rambling
I'm sure glad I'm not out gambling
Not for money, but survival
Bless my sanity's revival

First came the ocean's bottom
Next, the top of the world
Then, I was numb, dead
Now I am myself instead

At first it was a paradox
I couldn't understand
Drugs meant to resurrect me
Could render me so bland

But that was just a phase
The gilded Age was brief
Not long 'fore I could smell fresh air
Salt's not a stealthy thief

The seasons change
Friends come and go
But I outlast
And won't let go

To anyone who's in a bind
Keep fighting, see it through
There's sunshine once the clouds are gone
It's waiting there for you.

post nubila phoebus

LUST is a juicy fruit
the seeds of impurity cover it like a blanket
once it is bitten into, the taste of desire overwhelms the senses
enveloping them, a euphoric cloud of fantasies
which are played on repeat in the head
press play for a demonstration of frustration and regret
as one remembers the taste of sweet strawberries
the lingering tartness of pleasure
the tangible bitterness of self-interest
the juice is dripping from the chin
of those who indulge in this enticing sin
ensnared in the fury of so-called passion

two lovers, caught between silk bedding
fighting for the covers, bare skin breathing through fibers
whispers dangling in the room's stale air
a clock ticks the tempo of passion
the lovers feign an argument about something trivial
laughing, they resolve and go into fits of happiness
outside, the leaves on the trees rustle in the wind
somewhere, a school bus blares its horn
the world is waking up
but our lovers are still in bed, dreaming lazy
she wakes up in a delirious haze
he coos at her and she purrs in delight
finally she stirs and rises to make breakfast
whole wheat banana pancakes
Jack Johnson variations

dimitri was a music man who paid attention to life's subtleties
he chiseled at a block of notes, hammering them down to sculpted perfection
music did he use as a platform to disguise his controversial contexts
distracting his judges with thin air before delving into the matter at hand
a scherzo, to illumine Stalin's atrocities
sewn into the playful boom-chuck, dangerous melodies and complex harmonies
in one instance, the William Tell did he use to comment on
power to the people and their triumph over the regime
it was a strategic ironic play
Rossini's light, airy music brewing with tumult in fact
une blague, a sort of joke to mock society
an unsettling fiddle bit later echoed in the likes of Bernstein
dimitri read his part at a UNESCO convention--
--deadpan, not looking up once from his paper
it was clear, he had his own opinion
a voice rang in the distance, an approaching bell
at a time when all were violently silenced
the opposition cleverly fashioning his statements
one only had to listen to his symphonies to find
dimitri's was a very attuned mind.