Sharing small town concepts,
language, in hopes to pave a path;
at a bar stool conversation,
after an empty whisky shot throat-sting,
as beer bubbles trace a 1/3 full pint glass.
One local could move forward with art,
or make it easy—take a step back.
Laugh , and seize the moment…
I think about it…
I say: but the proof is only if it kills you,
Bukowski said that,
I sort of believe the man.
We are not perfect artists, really—no one is,
the evidence is: we are still alive, mostly.
See: I’ve been to a few funerals;
I know the end of my story will be
surrounded by a shovel, dirt, words, and a box.
Then, a man I don’t know will tell others about me.
(The real artist is the priest who doesn’t know you acting like he does,
he swears to god. You were good, though god doesn’t understand death.)
Then, no more art will come out of you,
but they will hear it.
That is the perfect artist and art.
That is the truth, perhaps.