Sept 15
WHINING BRATS
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.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane
and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
