outside of independence theatre

i am indie

but less artful than 

the clone 

his brushstroke on the timpani 

something to behold

after the grunge voice lets loose

his bride knife. 

its all pollock today, he couldn't 

be less basquait if he tried, 

maybe he mulches gingerbread 

in a teacup with seltzer, 

calls it: verdure. 

i am jealous, sure, 

can't play lantern tunes 

or fiddle

i am not the last remaining survivor 

of the punk holocaust,

its so sensationalist

to tinker with beards on lisa

to lay with tigers and pray. 

there are saints in the rows 

and the tissue thieves in the nosebleeds

they all like your turn

as the ambassador

to yoga videos

and ponds for the well fed. 

i am the smartest today, 

i know your look: 

its book jam, brioche,

smattering off

the cuff, 

blistered

bovine to the cliff.