This summer I sold out and bought an a/c Artists were meant to suffer To transform their suffering Into understanding and hope By altering perspective For those who were unable To find it in themselves But now, I was no good.
I was heat struck and heat warped Caught in a fire like ash dump While the humidity swarmed Down on the rusted a/c units In cramped window sills And the old women Fanned themselves off With junk mail and rain beaten Coupon books on the steps of their stoop.
I gave in Cause I no longer cared. What it meant to be an artist.
What did it mean to be an artist? I didn't want to know because The art, the creation, the apparent magic Had failed me Had blessed others, That weren't me. Why would I continue to care?
I was hot I looked 10 years younger With smooth, glowing skin And a thinner belly From the sweating In my bedroom Which it felt like A Turkish sauna.
This was better Than suffering for art.
I should have charged admission Inviting over all the gay boys Who have to wait for the Men only days on the bathhouse calendars I could have played them my records Or read them poetry Or discussed the Matisse print outs I had taped to my wall While they rolled and licked And rollicked and rocked And fondled and felt In the glistening steam Of my intimate bedroom
But that wasn't going to happen Cause I had mounted the a/c unit To my windowsill.
Cool air surrounded me Like two towelless men Wrestling in the steam tinted shade Of a showerhead.
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