Sometimes, when art or writing is off, it’s just off. It could be lack of skill, or it could need more work. It could mean, well it could mean, it’s just lousy. But it seems the ones who do art best, the ones who get what the rest of us don’t, they don’t do it in neat rectangles. Something’s a bit off.

Like that bit of dis-rhythm in Jagger’s moves. You know.

Like the violin, or the stream of thought, that goes there, instead of here.

We want sharps, we want flats. And we want jazz. We want that flash of the unexpected that makes some artists sound off key, and others sound like they are going to take you somewhere special. They are barely holding on and willing to share it with you, wherever it goes. That’s what we want. We want good art, not dumbed down shit, thrown together at the last minute. But if it fits too perfectly, in squares, and rectangles, it’s boring, and we want more. We want someone to give us everything they can find, lying there down at the bottom of the soul, and they’re willing to get past the rules, and the squares, and the rectangles.

We want the offbeat.


Same four walls.
Day after day.
Sunday’s on the phone to Monday.
They’ve got nothin to say.
Look around me. What’s to see?
Shoes and coffee cups.
Your stuff, my stuff.
Dust and debris.
Laptops, cords.
Closed doors.
And slammed doors.
Words I think up.
Words stuck.
On the tip of my tongue.
You and me.
It’s getting to be.
Hardly friendly.

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