It’s tonight again,
presently well past midnight,
and I have accomplished as much as anyone can
in one day,
am now too tired to read anything,
and unfortunately, have no new movies to watch,

so must relegate myself to
this—
the endless saga,
more boring than an Andy Warhol film—
“Sleep”—for example,

And I don’t want to sleep!!!

So I’m here again. Actually, I’m always here,
shackled to my seat
in the same screening room,
nothing more than my own darkened skull,
the concession stand selling only Scotch and ice,
which I buy,
suck on,

bread and water, you know,
but man cannot live
by cinema alone.

Though it keeps me awake for the next feature,
the window in front of me
always snow blind
as the other sheep are led in and out,

while I alone
remain.

And incidentally, that crazy bastard Warhol once said
life is a movie—and he was right—
except this one sticks pins in your ass,
gives you diarrhea, cancer—
and it’s not just the main character,
the main character is you—
in full total Sensoround
makes you wish you’d stayed home instead,
never got out of bed, stuck earplugs
in your head,
but there is no escape
from this theatre, until the ushers carry you out
feet first.

And you’ll try anything
to get your reprieve from fantasy, reality—
poetry, porno, pugilism—
but nuthin’s really gonna let you get away with it,
and that’s art, pal, real art, or trash,
decapitating you right in the middle of the love scene . . .

no plot, intermission, Hollywood ending,
not even an EXIT sign, the goddamn place always
on fire,

though you, mostly miserable, keep wanting the show
to go on and on . . .