"this may or may not have been: a manifesto"

Ah, my second impression, maybe
it sucks,
is wrong,
and I'm wrong.

But who cares?

The best thing a poet can do is produce.
The best thing an artist can do, is practice.
We are all practitioners, but if we practice for perfection
we have missed our own best mark: practice. Practice is
for its own sake. To produce the work. A great work
is greater than than any artist.

One single masterpiece

is a greater thing - in terms of a world of billions it can impact, over its immortal ages of influence - one single masterpiece is a miraculous thing, of greater worth than all of the mere beings, of all artists, combined. Those puny humans

lack that worth.

Their works are where their worth inheres.

Output. Out put. Put out. Poets, songwriters, lyricists are whores,
and it is those
who are their own johns, tricks, and pimps who matter

less

not at all

and more.

For what? For what, is the nature of life?

FUTILITY?

I say futility.

I say the nature of life: is futility.

Well. So. Dare
any motherfucker
gainsay me? I dare you

to prove it, then! And until then,

we're all ahead. Aren't we?

Because I'll tell you this, my shallow-breathing brethren:

I am.

Ladies,
gents, brutes
and flies and otherwise, I bid you:

a gauntlet. And,

"This May Or May Not Have Been A Manifesto"