you make light of what you are doing, but really, these things ARE art. you have found yourself more interested in everyday things that you happen upon, rather than something that someone is shamelessly promoting. this is the beginning of a genuine love of art. (or the end of a whorish trained love of art, or both) it IS everywhere, but not everyone can see it, mostly because they have a trained idea of what art IS or should be. the same is true of music.

if only you had seen the sharpie drawing of a naked woman on a bathroom stall wall… it has been with me ever since. the whole god damn door should have been removed and hung on a wall. i’m not big on any kind of nude art, but to see it so tastefully done where it shouldn’t be tasteful at all was the art of the art. it wasn’t lude or anything. it was a psuedo rueben-esque (shoot me for using that cliche and probably spelling it wrong too) drawing done by someone who obviously knew what the fuck they were doing. it wasn’t the kind of thing you whipped it out and jerked off to… it was the kind of thing where you looked at it and thought… this is what “real” women look like.

to have such a realization while you were yet shitting, again, was a breakthrough. it was the kind of thought you should be having in a classroom somewhere, but never have because your teachers suck and you go to shitty state funded schools. instead, some mother fucker with a sharpie taught you more about life than anybody from a university. not only that, but he tucked it away, perfectly for men to view so that they would see it and know what a real woman looked like.

it wasn’t out there in public, yet it was in public. that too was a beautiful thing. the other thing is that I was certain, however crazy this makes me, that he liked the idea of drawing it there to leave for the passersby. indiscriminately waking us up, one brutal pig man at a time.

imagine the horror when one day after drinking like a fish i went to the stall to visit the bathroom madonna (as i named her) and she had been murdered by some cock sucker with a paint roller. how could they??? so i pissed and had another beer. she lives on for now only in my mind, like many things i will never forget. of all the things, tragic things, written or drawn on stall walls she was like the balance that saved it all from being unbearable. when they painted over her it was like someone had crucified Jesus.

O.k. that’s an overstatement, but i really loved the ideas that i had while staring at it during a poop or pee. finally, the bathroom walls were worth looking at i thought. i’m a shit house poet and write beautiful things on bathroom walls. for every 100 people or college frat boys who write silly shit on the walls or simply draw an erect penis, there is one genuine shit house poet or artist. we’re there like a light in the darkness. the depth amidst the shallow, shallow, triviality that is the thoughts, or thoughtlessness, of the common man while he is pissing or pooping.

i just corrected a mis-spelled word… it was comman for common… i think i was trying to say common man… i repeat it for you here because it’s the nicest mistake i’ve made in a long, long, time.