Here we are together in the shadow
of The Beatles. We have all known
the elegant fix. Mine is white.
As a kid I lacquered my identity
to match things I wanted. A way
to join my own shiny church.
I didn’t lie so much as glide.
I was and still am primarily interested
in the surface of things.
Like what does success mean in the face
of fame? How does one prevent a lyric
from becoming a text?
Try and hold the pink lyric
of the dog’s tongue out from the brown
text background of his face.
That is a cause I can join.
I love this song but I hate the words.
Don’t listen to them.
Choose the proper shade of white
to paint the light bulb. Something tells me
I’m into something good.
You should paint the apple red. Once it’s
done no one can
eat it or use it. That means you win.
I was and still am compelled
to put my mouth on the material.
The paper, the canvas, the paint.
I see a new white appliance,
I want to lick it. I never owned
The White Album.
You can put your mouth on it,
or your name on it,
but you can’t own it. You can’t eat it.
The Beatles made it white.
A little famine you can hold
in your hand but not fuck up.