Avenue Diner. You know, that one place we met for coffee and breakfast. We sat there just as the sun rose over that crooked midnight smile. I laughed as you coughed and smoked three coffin nails into your head rest. And just as the server was about to freshen your cup, I realized that hot brown sugar water was filling me up. The other diner guests had grown restless, waiting for their french fries and open faced denver bibles. And just as fast as those cooks could flip their scrambled eggs, we played the check and ran from the diner as if it was a burning building about to light up. Two more coffin nails and six centuries of a city past as we walked down the street. Alley cats and grocery cart drivers hustled and bustled about their daily routines. At this time of day (or was it night?) you can always see the inner workings of this town. We put on our faces, and those business suit lies and laugh like kings of the board rooms. But what we really want is to jump into the dumpsters and find another mans pleasure. I keep looking at your watch like it’s got something to say, but it just keeps repeating the same phrase. It’s time to get moving. It’s time to get the hell out of here. My wheels are burning, and I’ll be damned if I’m not dragging you to hell with me kicking and jumping for joy. A priest and a nun walk past like a bad joke, as they burn holes of holiness into the back of our empty skulls. But just like that brown sugar diner with those scramble eggs I’m filling up. I’m filling up with desire. I need to burn, and honey from the looks in your eyes, I’m about the look like the night sky on the fourth of July.
”Go into the arts. I’m not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.” — Kurt Vonnegut
You know Kurt, I certainly am making a living, but I think you’re onto something here. I go many days without creating anything. Most of the time I make things I’m not satisfied with. But somehow I keep coming back to the pen and pad, the paint brush and bucket, the band and the rhythm. Swimming in a sea of mediocrity feels a lot like drowning. But I just can’t stop swimming up stream. Every corner is hiding the next big thing. All the late nights and mayhem are wonderful stories to tell in the morning. More often than not those nights turn into the most productive of mornings. So Kurt, I can’t help but smile when I make lousy art, or light the world on fire with my friends, or when I get caught up in those beautiful, round eyes. Waking up next to your inspiration is one hell of a good morning. So Mr. Vonnegut I will keep on singing, dancing and telling all those stories and I’ll sure as hell keep living. And I will never stop making art.