9.12.11 (poem on a plane)

Everyone thinks they're an artist;
the gold and the gritty,
the fat and the pretty.
Everyone wants to be heard;
listen, I say, I will tell you the truth:
we've all lost what drew us to art.
Limitless inspiration has turned to dust;
fleeting moments between coffee and coke.
Some would like to think otherwise, phonies.
The battle is long lost.
Everyone wants to believe they are different;
everyone wants to be an artist.

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