Oh, the Joys of a Dying Art

Look at me shudder, twitch,

Flick, and sputter.

I am the death throes of a dying art.

My words are the last will and testament

Of a feeble, worn out,

Bedsore ridden invalid,

Once so powerful and effective

That gods bent their ears

To the ground

To hear the shuffle of its feet.

My lineage is 50, 75,

Even a hundred years

Distant.

My family tree,

Varied in race,

But not in calling,

Fills 27-book encyclopedias.

While the future comes

In HD,

My past has colors so old

That an 8 piece crayon set

Could complete its color-by-numbers.

Oh, the joys of a dying art.

Before the order of things reversed,

People gathered to hear

When the bard spoke.

There was money to be made

In this poetry racket.

Kids actually wanted to be us

And parents hoped their offspring

Would be creative enough

To excel in verse.

No longer.

Now, we are laughed at,

Our title a snickered joke,

A caricature of past greatness,

Reviled now,

And ignored.

But, I,

I do not ignore what I see,

Because while my calling

May be dying,

The symptoms of disease,

The smell of rot

Lingers in the air

Seeping from the carcass

We call culture.

A prophet is not without honor,

But in his own country.

And so,

I am a prophet,

But I am no John the Baptist.

There is no Messiah

In our future.

No one to clean up the mess,

This tower to heaven,

We built with our own hands.

No hope of a savior

To cover the sins of our generation.

The bloodstains lie across our palms,

Tire tracks from

The scene of the crime.

I bear the mantel of Jeremiah

And fire is coming.

Destruction will rain

From the skies

And our straw houses,

Built to last a moment

Will be consumed.

God, Nature, Entropy,

The Holy Trinity,

The Almighty Consumers.

Oh, the joys of a dying art.

I, the wild eyed crazy

On the corner,

“The End of the World!”

“Run”

You buy my book for a buck

And hope that my yelling

Will quiet down long enough

For your coffee to cool.

But I,

I,

AM BOILING.

My burner is set on high,

And these words keep coming,

Elements heated,

Shaking and twitching,

Ready to overflow this container

And set this room on fire.

Oh, the joys of a dying art.