If I could translate
To you in words
How much it would hurt
To have my teeth extracted
And crushed with a hammer
Before my very eyes. It
Might make great art.
I debate instead
Whether an artist can invent his art;
Whether he can conjure novelty out of his thin air.
They say: everything has already been done.
But I believe this sort of transcendence to be possible.
I am a house-band
But yet I make art.
How do you explain this, friends?
What about the word “louge” —
An adjective describing something huge and loud.
The word did not exist
Until I uttered it by mistake. A fortuitous slip, a neologism.
The new is always entirely possible.
I remember a childhood playpal
Telling me that he could hear — actually hear —
Chinese men cursing in San Francisco, presumably Chinatown.
Who thinks of that?
He is now making music, I am told.
I bet his music is new and grand.
Maybe even louge.
There is some work
I do better sober; other work
I do better a bit mussed,
Messed, fucked up.
So many things are possible — see?
Like the phrase,
“There’s not enough time in the day….”
I would have thought of that on a good day
But it was already taken.
Mad, I lougely curse.
Or rather I let the Chinese from San Fran do it for me.
Do you hear them also?