Tell Me 'Bout It

Rimbaud you were flamboyant
with your derangement of the senses!
But you got nothing on me!
Even with your wanderings,
through revolutionary cities,
with bad companions
and outrageous gestures,
ah, the outward show
of such social rejection!
And you certainly drew
all the slings and arrows!
(Oh I just saw lightning
outside my window,
heard big bangs of thunder!)

Yeah, anyway
you were all decked out
in detrius of cultures
long dead, still walking,
wrote your mad cryptic poems
to accolades of the avante garde,
how nice.

No, no, you misunderstand!
I am not comparing my poetry to yours,
my pen scratchings,
visions from high mountaintop
and low swamps.

No, but you still,
you got nothing on me,
I can arrogantly proclaim this
with full confidence and
utter defiance!

You knew it had nothing to do with art,
and so did all your goofy friends,
even Kerouac and Ginsberg knew,
it wasn't about art, it never was,
it was all about the
brief mad apprehension (ah, ah,
big lightning now,
crashing thunder,
the rain finally falls,
a good thing,
for the heat of the day
was oppressive in New York City,
I woke up this morning literally reeling from it.)