It's not the worst way to go once you know what to expect. It's all the people who aren't rich enough for Amtrak or airfare and aren't bothered enough to care how they get to wherever it is they're going. And when they start talking, and they always do, you find that each of them has a story they want to tell. Everyone, no matter how young or old, has some lesson they want to teach. And I sit there and listen and learn all about life from people who have no idea how to live it. Nobody knows how to just shut the fuck up and look out the window anymore.
The bathrooms are tiny and filthy and you have no choice but to piss all over yourself when the bus swerves, but the streetlights look like blurred stars exploding in the window when it rains at night, and you can sleep knowing that if there's an accident and everyone on the bus dies it wasn't your fault.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
Forecast
A couple drinks. A couple aspirin. Repeat.
If you've reached middle age and you see how you're never going to be the big famous artist you dreamed of becoming and paint something that will touch and inspire people, really touch and move them and change their lives. You just don't have the talent. You don't have the brains or inspiration. You don't have what it takes to create a masterpiece. If you see how anything you create would just be adding more mediocre shit to a world already crammed with mediocre shit. If you realize you're forty-one years old and you've reached the end of your God-given potential, well, cheers.
Here's mud in your eyes. Bottoms up.
Here's as smart as you're ever going to get.
Just for the record, the weather today is bitter with occasional fits of jealous rage.
If you've reached middle age and you see how you're never going to be the big famous artist you dreamed of becoming and paint something that will touch and inspire people, really touch and move them and change their lives. You just don't have the talent. You don't have the brains or inspiration. You don't have what it takes to create a masterpiece. If you see how anything you create would just be adding more mediocre shit to a world already crammed with mediocre shit. If you realize you're forty-one years old and you've reached the end of your God-given potential, well, cheers.
Here's mud in your eyes. Bottoms up.
Here's as smart as you're ever going to get.
Just for the record, the weather today is bitter with occasional fits of jealous rage.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Waste of Paint
I want to scream out that it all is nonsense. Your life is one track - can't you see it's pointless? But just then my knees give under me. My head feels weak and suddenly it's clear to see, it's not them, but me who's lost my self identity as I hide behind these books I read while scribbling my poetry. Like art could save a wretch like me with some ideal ideology that no one could hope to achieve. And I'm never real. It's just a sketch in me. And everything I made is trite and cheap and a waste.
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