I think that at some point
in every artist career
(i suppose im an artist now)
they create the truest work they ever will
and everything feels not as right to them
those works were what they always strived for
i remember writing them
how could i not?
riding into new york
a bus full of strangers
in the pitch blackness of midnight
i took the last free breath of my life
and i staggered my way
across any paper i had
writing the only things
id ever be proud of

as the clock hands rolled
in time with the buses wheels
i looked at the strangers around me
some of which i knew since childhood
and i knew
that as long as i had this piece
everything would work out
and i could go on with my life
and never have to write another word

if only it was bright enough on that bus
to actually wright anything
other than abstract lines
representing the structures
of dead words epitaphs

so i write
trying to get a glimpse
of what i saw
that horribly seductive night
in a new york spring