Some days whining brats come at me from all directions and my hair won’t curl. Apathy chases me around the house. I wonder how it has more energy than I do. My mind twists into a wrinkled mess; I drag my good foot and hop on the bad one. And even on those days I still rather be me; I never long to be the innocent victim or the spiritual leader, the tough guy or the PhD. No matter how bad it gets or what the struggle is, there is no place sweeter than in my head. Many are the days when I wished not to exist, not at all, but never to shuck my skin for the skin of another. Now that I manage, breathe right and face each day with cheer I know it was almost worth it and might be worth it yet.
Write your name on a piece of paper and slip it into your pocket.
Warhol Wouldn’t Be
There is no trick to art.
If I work to make my pieces fit with the familiar
I lose my individuality.
If I make what is truly me
I fear there is no line in which to stand.
I must make the work, find the market,
live life and die happy;
All this with no map
and a world filled with people
who tell me what to do,
but none who can guarantee the outcome.
My unwillingness to fight,
to look at and feel the ugliness of life
is at the core of my impediment.