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Postmodern Village
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Art (We appreciate it in a deep, non-Lacanian sort of way)
by Hezekiah Allen Taylor

as a poet I have an inkling
Andy Warhol and Beethoven somehow suddenly on equal footing
in life, they really would have detested each other
and neither would drink on Sundays with Seurat
in my head, when I imagine him trying very hard to explain
the finer details of pointillism, it's always in the voice
of my old friend Robert, slightly drunk and amusingly lewd
like a good pick-up line:
I've lost Jim Dyne's phone number; can I have yours?
I hear he has quite the impressive tool collection.
You know how to Lichtenstein, right?
There will be a quiz on this later.

I guess it really is all about sex
in 1993, I took a class in modern art
we reviewed performance pieces from the sixties and seventies
one museum, I remember, exhibited a man masturbating to a waiting crowd
and, being a poet even then, I couldn't help but think that John met Yoko while reading
her only answer to his proposition off a pristine, white ceiling
and all it ever said was "yes"

Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version -- Inspiration
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