These walls are papered

With faces and petals

That can only be seen

On the outside.

     Sometimes,

     I want to strip naked

     And roll in paint.

Originality is an illusion

Created by glossy photographs

And desperate hopefuls

Who could never quite manage to grasp the concept of life.

     (To die?)

To paint is to play God,

If only with a brush

And a limited palette.

I find myself in color

      (And Mary, and Jim, and Sue …)

But nobody actually cares.

                        It’s a vicious, vicious world!

                        Three piece suits and bibliophiles alike

                        Bloom and blossom

                        To the sound of insulting rap music.

Illiterate speakers, transvestite soldiers

Guns, knives, Advil and ping pong.

Creation is condemned

     (And why not? We’re all just posers)

While injustice is allowed.

The city screams of forgery!

     (I live in a small town)

This blacktop is alive!

Live to die, die to live …

Inevitability holds us prisoner.

Structure, routine, hammer, GUN.

Find yourself.

Find yourself on someone else’s canvas.