It’s one of those things that you think about when you pack a bowl… You sit there firing up, holding the smoke in and scrolling through websites searching for something entertaining and you see Kim K’s ass and you’re like… whoa.So you start thinking well damn. I don’t know if it’s art or not. And you feel stupid about this internal debate because damn it all to hell on some level you consider yourself an artist too. You hold in the smoke and go, I can’t hate on her for a lot of reasons I mean, she made herself a brand just by doing the basest of things being sexual. And a lot of people don’t like it but maybe it’s brave. And you’re shaking the cashed ash into the trash and going but I’m supposed to be disgusted kind of, I think but the photographer is the real artist, the lightening guy. You turn something so everyday, a body, into something people would rather talk about instead of their child support and herpes and late car notes.Art moves you, right? And damn it somewhere down deep you think that you are an artist too. But you can’t demand respect when you are creative. When you take every day things, like body parts, or straws, or rocks and build it into something people love or hate or want or crave and you are helping people aren’t you? Aren’t you reminding people of their emotional side and allowing them to tap into that, for whatever it’s worth? And so what if you make a profit. The shameless deliver on time, don’t they? You hit the bowl again and realize you don’t give a fuck about Kim K or her husband or her kid or her business or her family or anything like that, that really what you want is to be remembered like that. Loved or admired or hated or vilified. You want the same thing, the attention the respect the glory but in a different way, for your scribbles. You want to one day, a hundred years from now, be the poet that all students have to read to understand the times that you live in right now. You want to be canon. And no you can’t live long enough to ever see that die hard fantasy become reality but you keep clicking the keyboard every day. And when you aren’t clicking, or smoking you are thinking about clicking, you are writing shit on your palms in Sharpee, memoing ideas to yourself on your smart phone, pulling over to write down a verse on a receipt from the drive thru. You’re publishing and promoting and shit, this is the thing… you’re doing exactly what you want to do. And you are contributing to art and writing and authors and poets and lyrics and tasting it. Tastes like passion. You cough because that was a long draw and the smoke ran deep into your chest and you say hey if I could be a prostitute for my art man, I totally would. I would be Stephen King if I had anything scary to fucking scribble down. But you aren’t him. You are you and you are a word slut. Just taking something simple, like 26 letters and thousands of years of memories and thoughts and hopes and dreams and scrambling them like eggs and standing back waiting for the others to come open up the pages and sigh, relief. I am not alone. We exist! All this helps you come to the distinct realization that you are indeed high as fuck and better get some coffee. You have a whole lot of writing to do tonight…..



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