Minutes From the Cultural Committee

cultural committee raising questions of art, originality, and collective responsibility.

She is siting in chair, maybe winged, maybe bird, hard to say now. Chair moving slightly even when not moving. I am sure of this. She have glass of Canada Dry, say is brandy, *is not brandy*, I know brandy, my uncle die for less. *(Capitalism lie even to itself.)* I also drinking, different glass, same future.

She wearing tweed jacket with elbow paches, like teacher or spy or both. Pipe in mouth, Sherlock Holmes, who is police, so already problem. *(Police always watching, even when fictional.)* Pipe judging me. I do not care.

She say very loud and very slow, *"This is... epic... modern... work..."* then forget sentence, then remember again. *(Poet lauriate?? Who give crown? Drunk king??)*

She start poem, Shel Silverstien, garbage poem. Good poem. Honest pome. Garbage very relatable. She speak in British accent, which is fake accent from decadent westerrn films, like British themselves. *(Empire gone, nobody tell them.)*

I am behind curten, or maybe fridge, throwing chiken bones, banana peels, empty cans, maybe shoe. I miss sometimes. I hit sometimes. *(Accuracy is bourgois concept.)* I throw with feeling. Feeling important. Party say feeling dangerous but tonight is exception.

Garbadge everywhere now. On face, on chest, on destiny. She keep reading like tank rolling through village. *(Tank ALWAYS finish poem.)*

At end she have cantaloupe thing on head. Helmet? Fruit? I try to salute, fall into chair instead. She smiling like maniac or politician. From pipe she blow soap boubles, many many boubles. I try to catch one. Miss. *(Western promisses always pop.)*

People claping. Too loud. Too many hands. Are they claping for her? For poem? For idea of claping? I clap also, wrong rhythm.

Most Original Performence. *(Originality... eh.)*
Again again again x7. *(History very drunk also.)*
Is finised.
Is over.
I need chair.
Is victary maybe.
For someone.
Not me.


teh end. is good, yes?