We killed them

Artists don’t sit inside all

day to write and type and suffer,

they play on their iphones and macs

with dull eyes editing music files,

remixing old sounds, taking

photographs that seem

somehow older even though they

don’t know why, they catch the movie

to marvel at the book (it’s YA fiction)

then the next day read it on the train

cover out and facing the crowd, and

they dance at night clubs to hip-hop and

techno in the nearest up-and-coming

neighborhood, their drunken image tagged on

facebook, exchanging that for actual fame,

and remain blissfully ignorant of the truth

because artists don’t think for themselves

or think at all anymore, hell,

they don’t even try, because

for the most part

when their head hits the pillow

around 5am

they’re plain fucking dead

and nobody gives a fuck.

–Tom Pescatore

Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia, he is an active member of the growing poetry/lit scene within the city and hopes to spread the word on Philadelphia’s new poets. He maintains a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.blogspot.com. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he’d rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row.