I looked at my painting and thought it was my wall,
I thought i’ve gone too far this time, across the bridge and back again, over the rainbow, through the looking glass,
I told myself I’d change, I would be better, but realized I like myself just the way I am,
And I have my own nasty habits, my own vices, my own secrets,
Sitting here in my studio, cold hands, crazy legs and face and mouth and tongue,
You’re lucky they don’t cut it out.
I’m not Tommy, skitzo in the cabin, sledge hammer, burn the place down,
I passed a bunch of semis, fears of the cabins, with beds, engines, big wheels rolling down the dark highways with the radio lights on, blues and reds.
Then there was reality, I had to remember I’m still here, come back home, come back,
Women belong in museum collections, they deserve to be re-written back into art history books.
Back, come back, I’m reeling into outer space, I need my landing gear on, come back, behave.
That’s the end of my story today.
That’s how I feel like nothing and evetything all at once,
Like a flash of ice cold water on a cold February day, with little finches at my feet, the sun lowering behind the bay trees,
Moss and light.
That’s where I have to go right now. I need to take my dog on a walk.
Slugs, mud, bark, cold air.