The dread of not creating, an economic dread, the productive self divided—one not earning, the other sacrificing earning potential to give the first more time, not seeking advancement only peace for the artist, but getting no further, prone to hysteria—When will the artist make money?
Trapped in a grimy brown round from which pleasure
(as if forbidden)
and sunshiny scenes are entirely absent, la vie boheme without sex wine or song
desperate to fulfill the early promise vouched for by compassionate teachers
by their hosannas in the margins
crowded in among the misbegotten artists, lumpen fleshed, waving flippers for cash in fluorescent-bulbed office arcades—so far from nature—
and the misfired artists, cracked by some fatal imbalance of conditions in the fire or clay—so many variables—
unfinished and misshapen artists, broken in the making and discarded by their gifts
while the gifts turned fugitive gather in spirit eddies about knee level in Times Square to rattle with the change in paper coffee cups.
Is the self, or is it not, enough?