The Buddhist went west for sex,
The professor went east for knowledge.
A brothel with addicts
Costs the same as college.
With combed-back hair and tailored suit
The Buddhist claimed our Institute
On mid-west donations and a pink business card
Plainly stating, I AM AVANT-GARDE.
He raised the trivial to new heights.
He was a god among the legal fights.
The pile of art resembling garbage grew
(It couldn’t be Romantic. It had to be something new)
Besides every theory he knew
Purportedly in the new house to forget.
He’d conquer the richest spinster yet.
The professor, meanwhile, found bliss
In Kyoto. In libraries made of glass
He studied for hours statuettes of grass.
The students he sent west applauded
Everything he touched—and lauded.
Eventually, garbage is thrown away,
But we can photograph it. See?
The professor has captured it, lovingly,
Featuring every other photograph he took
In a fine arts academy monograph collection
Published as a reproduced journal inside
The surroundings of a picture book.
There it is on the coffee table. My third wife
Has, no doubt—where is she?—saved my life.