Yeah, you’re going to be
a super star
which means
the smoke from the factory stacks
will blow steam and grime
that will spell your name
in a Helvetica font
that will eventually break apart
with the winds
that go any direction
but the one you
want it to.
Your art inspires
averted eyes
and side glances
and disguised mumbling
under phony coughs.
The self- portraiture
clogs the internet,
social media
exclaims your
face and nicknames
with a vocabulary
only dogs can hear.
Your voice
is a dog whistle
that makes millions
suddenly depressed
and willing to
sooth their spirits
with Crispy Cremes
and reruns of Divorce Court
In a month
you have 500 videos
online explaining
that you really love getting
free stuff
and that you’re
putting it out there
because you’re just sayin’.
You’re always just sayin’
yet nothing happens
except maybe
the room you invade
the world from
seems smaller, tighter,
a straight-jacket
you didn’t order,
and the monitor
on your desk
seems more like a
great big eyeball
scanning you up and down
like a package of
ground round that’s
turned brown under
a plastic wrap that
is slick and greasy to touch
yeah, everyone will know
your name
after the ambulances go.
Ted Burke
(Problems of Disguise)
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