Handstands In The Dark

First, a poem:


You love when you’re unwanted

You love when you’re adored

You only love a city when it is burning at it’s core


You love in tattered atmospheres

You love on solid ground

You only love a woman when she’s pulling out of town


You love yourself regardless

Of a blogger’s negative snark

And remind yourself that everyone

Does handstands in the dark


You love in spite of government

You love in spite of war

You only love with honesty, although it leaves you sore


We love when love is quarantined

We love when love is drowned

You only love a city when its burning to the ground


I’ve been busying myself with art-related work. It’s my thing. Drawing is my thing. Even if I never get any money out of it, I will die doing it, like nearly any and all creative art forms do. Or drugs. Drugs can sometimes kill you. Unless you’re the dealer, in which case you probably make a substantial amount of income and drive fancy muscle cars to Teavana. Have pretty ladies in leather bikinis (that you wear when alone in your castle in the sky) and own six vending machines filled with Dunkaroos, have an army of pet tigers, and hired some really, really, really old dude who looks like the butler from Tomb Raider that farts when you run up to him and press ‘X’.


…Did I get you thinking about a career change for a micro second there? Good. Me too.


Because I want a bikini-wearing tiger.