There are error messages and holovid offers,
Swarms of important people in real suits
Made by real people, offering deals and fame.
It seems she and I were found, given fame,
Our video a work of art, hailed as premodern.
They ask me: "What was it like, to change
The very structure of art?" And I tell them:
"It was fucking." And they edit it away.
Some things never change, not once.
For every understanding, a new
Censorship; for every wonder, a new label.
I'm tired of all the bullshit. They tell me:
You founded a new Way! So I ask:
What was wrong with all the others?
All I get are blank stares, nervous laughs.
She has leapt into it, to talk vids and sold
Her life story, ghost written by someone
She'll likely never meet, about a stranger
She only wishes she knew. Or maybe I just
Read too much in my envy. It's seems
So easy for her, to step into fortune.
The last time I did what I was told, leapt
Into places, forward, ahoy! I ended up
In this body, this frame, this life; and
None of those I saved came to see me.
I won't dance to your tune, I tell them.
But in some way we're all dancing still.
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