i'm in perpetual search for dostoevsky
in the chips aisle of seven eleven, or instead
in the crack of a beautiful woman's back side
but it seems he's always a step ahead

he's been everywhere i've been
but he's managed to live it in style
somewhere between god and middle class denial
finding the time to drink, and i mean really drink
returning home, and finding the will to think
and i mean really think, and finally the optimism
of writing on a piece of paper

how does one summon brilliant stupidity
of writing like none of it matters
and yet not letting the claim's validity
define the way your wine glass shatters
when either drink or hope run out
and there's nothing left to write about