Just a moment to puke

my friend, Moskowitz, has a real life
it has children, wife, house and a job,
a real job with benefits, and he wants
a moment to puke,

his art is trying to escape the plastic
wrap we’re born in, shed somehow the forty
or so years of solidifying that has clogged his
art pores,

he wants, no, needs to free his words like
his body needs to sweat when he runs--and
finding no time, he sweats anyway, so his
art jumps quickly out of his mouth with
no paper to land on,

like sweat his art evaporates into the air
un-captured like he wants to be.

how’s that for fucking ironic?

J. Masuda © 2005
art
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