I hear that you and your band

have sold your band after I line

my walls with fear-based wallpaper.

Not that I want anyone to come

along and mistake me for

someone unapproachable.  No,

but I cannot share my legs

with you at this age—and I'm not

even clear on the dangers of pliability.

Mass production has gone so long

out-of-hand.  Warhol was on it.

Like the time we were two shiny

new Buicks going steady who agreed

happily at the crack of smashed

fenders aged and beaten to meet

without the gift of gesture,

without the mapping of morality

and just an opera for a chorus.

Mass media was to Basquiat

as the Roman roads enabled

Christians to spread their news.

It's harder to believe though now

more than ever that Marilyn Monroe's

lips ever made it that big and aren't

around here.  These days I don't

bury myself in daily news or else

I'd be lost in hopeless forever.