On Art

by Eros Livieratos

​

The world is on fire, you shout

as if a prophetic Diogenes, some

mirror held to habits. You said

there was nothing left to do.

We’d rot like Plath on the shelf, singing

songs of deceased folk singers—I wonder

if they’re driving right now, writing

in a journal—injecting dirty

creativity. Heavenly dreams

burnt out when faced with

the rules espoused from all

those gods we were warned

about—I find myself wishing

I believed. An old man died today.

Your hands were the fountains

of Love Park or no-named Square

centered in a Mississippi hole

which we’ll generalize as not to burn

any consistent ideologies—where

the art comes from. Duchamp lives

from New York and dies in Kansas, a still

life, assemblage—the world is on fire

and the roots only grow in the Metropolitans.

You shout. I listen.

I burn—I listen.