oh please let this day dissolve me. let these words be a prayer to the great bucket of air that surrounds me- hear me and hunger for me. Let me hunger for nothing more and nothing less than a bottle of the finest angel air that is sliding up and down the spine of these leaves…leaves answers and envelopes in ancient tongues, in stories and in sounds.
How long did it take to redestroy all the things that got stuck in my brain arteries like clogged globs of butter and insecurity? Who ever demanded that writing be one thing or mean one thing or that we should tie up words, fit them into tiny boxes and reprint them in bland black and white to everyone that never wants to hear anything more than the pitter patter in the back of their own brainstem? How long has it taken my fingers to find themselves again and who is to blame? What institution can I point my waggly fist at? Where is the system and how can i chew on a bit of its heels?
It appears the mystery continues. The mystery unfolds. The back porch still waits, the forefront of my mind is now licked and calloused and healing as ever and somehow all these years have gone by, all these moments of words and word fumbles have flickered through my like a canister of open lights and I missed them. I let days drip through my like ceiling wax and dregs of old coffee. I let a year, or a series of many moons and months, drag me down into its tidal wave and roll me off its tongue. I lost my language, my lust for listening, my trust in the trees and my tiny golden orb of a heart that sat right inside my chest writing out pagefuls of fistfuls of antonyms for answers.
I don’t have an answer. I don’t know why it happened or how it happened but I do know that art can no longer be about the means to an end. Art cannot be the smothering of slimy old hands on a typewriter and art cannot be about forcing a pair of pens and pencils onto a slab of white concrete paper. Art is color and form and disasterous attempts to be alive. Art is circular and sedate, sunny and swelling. Art has desire and art has mind. Art sits where it wants to and says no even when it doesn’t have to. Art fills up the margins of mountains of paperwork and paper-mache hearts and paper doll dreams and “paper or plastic” regimes. Art swallows me whole and asks me for seconds. Art traces time not in seconds, or minute munches of minutes but in whole blasphemous birthdays of birth. Girth-days of giving. Great giant wheels of hunger for the horror of being fully alive. Art is a monster staring me in the face, waking me up in the morning to drag me around by the base of my cells, to attack me from all sides with the sweet sound of senselessness. Art wants to find me, wants to give me back my sense of sensing. Art wants to taste me with its big chaos mouth, chew me with its meaning molars and spill soul saliva all down the front of my dress. And I’ve got no mop, no broom, no handkerchief or hands for holding anything but a prayer that she will never release me.
Is the moon going to rip me from my skin…suck sweetly on the rind of my rolling brain fever…spit me back out in parcels and in protective goggles? Is the earth going to eagerly eek through my utterances, gather up my golden flames and send me swirling into the sea? Is the water going to drench me in soft swirling dregs of morning mystery? I keep asking I keep asking I keep begging for an answer but all the comes is the answering machine, the wind and a little drip of rain water coming from somewhere behind me.
And so I trod.
If it has to be anything, at least let me die inside of a poem.