The untimely artistic energy gushes
from wells drilled with great regret
miles below the tourist industries.
Souvenir shops and motels
occupy the tuned in hearts
thumping to mouth-watering iambs
on pop stations. The refineries
for raw talent stockpile ambition
and sublimation for cities and suburbs
that tour universities and Hallmark
for factory prints. Every means
has been tried and every expense
continues in an attempt
to stem at its human source the accident
spewing with paint, ink, noise, even stone
at a studio here and writing desk there.
The unrecognizable products
from dispersant sheen teens
and tar-balled gunk punks
carry regret boons and exotic sorrow
as the thrill babies thrill using thumbs
and temp-jobs to paper over
the oops career destined to hang
on a bank vault walls in 50 years.
The plumes from the slick poetry pipe
stop as natural gas in each exhales,
but not without the disaster welling up
in someone else deep beneath
the marketing hustle bustle
punching holes in fin and flesh.