It comes in a rush
But I haven’t a clue where from
My ass?
Perhaps…
The proverbial old friend called
Said he had an art guy
That I should bring my stuff down
Saying he’d get me in a gallery
With all his connections from a life of…
Connected-ness?
The gallery turned out to be a second hand store
Perhaps my art had found a home
Its very own trailer park at the beach
Complete with tiki lights and a golf print-Pebble Beach
The owner strutted in
But it wasn’t a real strut
More of a limpy I’ve seen better days swagger
His silk Hawaiian shirt had seen better days as well
He said he wasn’t impressed with my work
Then he turned on a well-worn heel
And swagger-gimped back outside
Where he castigated my proverbial old friend
For bringing him such shit
These are the moments
You hope to have thick skin
This is the time you wonder about life choices
They told me years ago I had limitations
But I didn’t buy it
Willing the shift and metamorphosis
Calling on my inner Kafka
I’d find my raving lunatic creator!
I am an artist
I am an artist
I am an artist
I am an artist
It was difficult to smile politely
Load up my precious creations
Barely shaking the hand of the old proverbial
And driving home 200 miles up the forlorn coast
Yet not as indelible as another stain on my soul
Reminding me that leaving a piece of yourself
Behind for posterity
Is overrated
