Poetry is old, and God is old, but older still
Than even God, is institutional will,
Is professionalism perched on the shepherd’s old hill.
The professional points to the paper,
Telling artist and lover what to do.
No love here. Yes, we mean you.
It has nice clothes and a nice demeanor
But beware—there is nothing meaner.
It will send millions of souls to slaughter
As it discourses on the properties of water.
Revenge is sweet,
But even sweeter
When mingled with kisses.
She went to meet her,
She called her in.
When did professionalism begin?
It tries to cover up—but becomes—sin.
Professionalism is sexless and more powerful than sex.
Whatever is sexy, the sexless wrecks.
Love is a pitiful, awkward dance.
Against professionalism it hasn’t a chance.
There was rock music,
But what came later?
Curatorial corporate music
In a glass elevator.
Professionalism killed Mozart
And Michelangelo, too.
Eliot wore a suit
While the bombs flew.
Professionalism is clever: It precisely creates
What publicly it hates.
The priests were evil,
But universal God was good.
Professionalism’s priests
Have no God;
Professionalism is God, understood?
Michelangelo, broken by the gulag,
Modernist, paints a soul with a rag.
Soviet? Yes! So what?
What kind of art do you do?
Manage investments. Professionalism is coming after you.
