Ghost of Earth ©

Alter Art

December 17, 2016 Poems, Word, Writing

Walked through
the art museum
forgetting Warhol was there,
hair green –
like in his printings
shirt striped –
like his muse.

I didn’t mean
to abuse the 60s
or the Silver Factory,
not my intention
to become a
carbon mirror
of a life
that ended
at my
present age,
one I spent
a lot of words on
once.

It was just
coincidence.

But I guess –
in the space
that there is no real
attachment
or replication of anything,
and everything is
also already
a copy,
I am safe
in having no
real quantifiable
authenticity
or originality
just like
the rest of us.

A veil
in place of
a noose
I am sheathed,
as you are
by alter-egos.

Many as they are,
brilliant as they feel,
may we not
be hung by them.

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