Why this universe?
I came out of this world
my isolated ego
inside a bag of skin.
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky
for I myself to live in.
Idolizing scriptures,
eating paper currency.
Hypnotized minds hypnotize willingly.

Animal or man,
saved or am I damned?
Defining yourself,
like biting your teeth.
Universal by virtue,
identified unique.
The future is a hoax, as
the distorted mirrors you seek.

Wanting to be perfectly
in such momentary fluidity.
Every individual manifests
fascinating complexity,
just as every branch
an outreach of the tree.
It is me, the wind.
It is me, the leaf.

Drew Dillinger
Ode to Alan Watts

In fields she dances
Spinning while she laughs
Flowers in her hair
Red locks down her back
Who is that angel?
Barefoot in the grass
Eyes deeper than the sky
A smile brighter than the sun
A beautiful scent
My favorite one
She visits me often
Though it’s never long enough
Maybe it’s just a dream
Or maybe I’m in love..

Drew Dillinger
Just a Dream

“I’m vile and perverted.
I’m obsessed and deranged.
I’ve existed for years but very little has changed.
I’m the tool of the government and industry too.
For I’m destined to rule and regulate you.
You may think I’m pernicious, but you can’t look away.
I’ll make you think I’m delicious with the stuff that I say.
I’m the best you can get… have you guessed me yet?
I’m the slime oozing out of your TV set….”

- Frank Zappa

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES

 Frank O’Hara
Why I Am Not a Painter