I forgot to wear
all black tonight,
me having flitted around town
going from one art show
to another.
It’s a good thing,
these art crowds tonight
were NOT expecting black.
Individual Expression
is the new black.
I love THAT.
Wonderful Art.
Different Art.
Wonderful People.
Different People.
When you get to be
a hundred years old,
like I am,
you begin to step back
and observe life,
outside in.
You really don’t need
to be here
to be here.
Sometimes,
I’m sure I appear rude,
but I’m busy
observing
everybody.
I’d prefer to be alone,
just looking at people,
than talking to them.
One art show was filled
with mulleted hipsters
with tattoos,
another was mostly
the gay.
I love,
and dabble
in a little
of both,
but am probably
neither.
The great thing about art
is that it is
an outer expression
of one’s inner
junk.
I got me some junk.
Looking down,
I realize now
that I have white jeans on
with a black and white t-shirt,
black and white tennis shoes,
and black and white glasses.
I’m sure my friend Sherri,
the psychic,
could analyze THAT,
and would probably tell me
that I have commitment issues,
or that I took
my Gemini side
out for a walk,
or something.
If I were 30,
and knew then
what I know now,
I’d look harder,
earlier,
at my junk,
and at all cost
put it out there
for it to do
what art does.
Time is of the essence.
People are dying around here.
God Bless Hipster Jesus and his gay ass Mullet.