craphouse poety seems to be dying out sometimes, but it always comes back. "Art Critic in a Gas Station Restroom" is an originial piece of - poetry, written in the early 1970's by yours truly.
On the strength of "Art Critic in a Gas Station Restroom" , I decided that I was not born to be a poet, and moved on to writing technical articles and occasional fiction.
Many people disparage and downgrade craphouse poerty and art because - well, the reason for that is obvious I suppose.
What they may not know is about the "handprints" discovered on the walls of some caverns in southern France, back in the 1950's. Some of them are estimated to be at least 30,000 years old.
According to anthropologists, the stone-age artists would take a handful of feces and "slap" it up against the cave wall, leaving a discernable hand-print.
That's right! The oldest human art we have evidence of is "craphouse" art, and all further artistic expression was developed from that genre. Art historians are aware of this, but generally will not acknowlege our debt to craphouse artists.
"Art Critic in a Gas Station Restroom" was written with all of this in mind, describing a hypothetical situation where a poofy, snooty art critic finds himself in a smelly gas station restroom, confronted with the root of all human artistic expression.
I hate to have to mention this, but it was supposed to be funny.
I don't have any other poetry to submit... Most of the poetry I wrote in the 70's was destroyed in a flood, and "Art Critic in a Gas Station Restroom" was the only one I had bothered to memorize.
New craphouse poety is rare, so I felt it was my duty to publish my humble effort in the original artist's venue, the walls of various craphouses. After writing it down a few dozen times I had it memorized, and like the handprints on those cave walls in France, it has "stuck with me" ever since.
charlesb
