AND SO...

and so i sat in these bars...
and sketched lonely faces,
of men and women,
who smoked cigarettes,
and drank whiskey.
and i joined them
in the parade
of souls,
marching toward oblivion.
and we didn't care,
that it was killing us.

sweet suicide it was,
and still is
for many...
the tattered masses,
the inebriated,
the suicidal,
the misunderstood,
the unemployed,
the employed,
and me.

and i look at my copies
of published works,
and great canvases...
stored or sold.
my scrapbooks of memories,
and photos.
I am now fondly received.
and it means less to me.
i claim my fame.
at such a cost.
all self-generated.
a mythology of bullshit.

on bar napkins,
i sketched in bars.
wrote dialogues.
scrawled it all down.
put it together.
and so...
it continues.
until it ends.