Medicate> Meditate> fool

ambition struggles along,

straggles the path, seed blown ragweed mad

allergic, bad.

Who am I, great bag of dust, yellow greenish must

hush hush of caution’s push on canvas walls,

imagination released in a sneezing cloud

“a dry brain in a dry season” :  sit and sift.

All is process, the lint of hubris

puffing through the air.

I say I must, I must.

Well, yellow bag, what if all this

was chemicals washing your brain

the wrong color. What if

your conclusions are wrong after all

all the time wrong dead wrong

and there was a reason for the drinking,

thinking, the lying, dying...

The struggle to consider life in all its beauty

that huge struggle out of which: art I thought:

maybe just some serotonin thing and it wasn’t art after all,

but the struggle of....shit!

Please. Just let the struggle to love be nothing less

than the terrible thing it has been.