Lying on a park bench, eyes clenched afraid of the spotlight, afraid it misses me, here on this bold tarmac where I've tossed my dice. What if there is nothing more than empty boxes, these presentsI’ve laid at your feet,
my gumdrops of suffering and blood?
If I respin this roulette wheel, with my chips on odd instead of uneven, tell me how it would be for me to pledge to art's uncertainty. Might I have profited more to revel in the scent of every petal?
Or rather should my sand be spent on gold-encrusted electronic gizmos, ceiling-to-floor plasma-screens, Versace Barocco pet bowls, diamond-studded fish hooks, and a never-driven Lamborghini?
No, I'm keeping my chips on the table betting my life grain by grain, knowing every moment I toil passionate, committed, self-aware exceeds the assurances of myth ped…