Jackson was a horrible drunk,
but at least he embraced the truth.
If one throws enough shit
at the wall, to the floor, on a page,
SOME OF IT is bound to stick.
Jackson lived, painted, and died,
but at least he found the SWEET SPOT.
For years, I've had a room
to write in, to work in, to die slow in—
inside of it a galaxy of crumpled paper stars.
Each morning I search for the SWEET SPOT
in the hallowed halls of mind, body, and soul.
Some days I spit out a diamond.
Most days I choke on coal dust.
But now that I've thrown enough shit
on the page, on this page, on other pages,
SOME OF IT is beginning to stick.
With many cigarettes, much coffee, and failure,
I have also learned to embrace the truth—
all art is somewhat accidental.