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To soften his adolescent growing pains
he was encouraged (can’t recall by whom)
to take up painting – to make a name 
for himself, they said. When that failed, 
and miserably, he took up drinking
which he likened not to a godsend, 
rather to a bodily need and calling. 
And so it was, for in little time 
he became proficient with the bottle 
and was soon dubbed master of alcohol. 
His first exhibitions were private, 
of course; he was, after all, a novice. 
Only years later, with no small courage 
or lack of inhibition, did he feel 
competent enough to go public. 
To his disappointment, however, 
and a severe blow to his pride as well, 
his public exposure (though widely known) 
was not well attended except by 
the usual “patrons” – mostly police, 
psychiatrists, and condemning clergy.
Happily, however, his name often
made headlines on gossipy tabloids – 
the only recognition he consistently 
garnered during a long career which has 
kept his name burning in the public’s 
ears and eyes for decades now, and is 
certain to be his legacy long after 
he has passed out and away for good.

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