Here I Am, Lougely

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
With friends
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?

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