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What did I have to offer
my self-satisfied generation?
Sleeping on someone else's couch
I was a liability.
I had nothing but my paintings
and the constellations to call my own,
but I fear both disowned me.
Raving, I filled notebooks
with prayers,
with utterances,
with supplications.
Smoking up midnight
I drank down the dawn,
walked out into the yard
and pissed steam into the darkness.
I was limping,
wounded with only words
and colors for a crutch,
hardly attraction enough to gain
the attention of a self-satisfied generation.
My life is a firework frozen in obsidian.
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