behind the why

i really think i am crazy.

not put me in a white

room with a clock

that goes backwards

then forwards and

a manila straight

jacket type of

crazy.

it’s just that i don’t care

about promotions or

social status or

money

all that

much.

although i do want to finish

paying for my kids in college.

and grad school

if they want.

and maybe a jeep someday.

and an art barn in vermont

to paint late nights. so my work

will colors and words will hang

in woodstock galleries. nice.

and i’m not scared of running

out of ideas. i have shelves

and shelves of sketches

taped together in black

notebooks and rainbow paint

on my berks and typewriter

fingers dripping with arthritis.

and i could go climbing skyward

hunting for lost artists of my genetic

tree. but this is the short

version. a proof of why

i

exist.