The Eskimo bruises, Duchamp, flushed, above it all.
Judging security guard scowling astride the exit. I must escape, intact, this oscillating illusion of contentment.
A phalanx of children and tourists tilted patiently against the museum.
Admittance would soon be free. You don’t have 25 bucks? I thought, entitled yuppie scum,
I thought of myself. When I had no money, I would just find some and buy terrible food and music.
Fools. Pass your time.
The names on the walls, bankers and artists: Fuld, Ovitz, Kravis. The money men possess cultural vanity and splash it in our faces. I want the money that earns that right.
Each bounce of the floor renders me less steady, feeling for a washroom, sanctuary. I’d start here with my war on humanity.
I’d make art by disabling wireless access, forcing people to interact. If they only interacted by yelling DO YOU HAVE SERVICE IN HERE?
I would restore us to sanity and our wasting lives.
We’re all dying, Andre Breton. We’re all dying with tired pixelated eyes.
(C) Matt Rhodes, 2013