What might I yet have to say about the dismantling that life has turned out to be?
Hubris humbled as I was told it would be by the eyes and mouths of my elders
Now I am amongst their wily ranks
A disgruntledly accepted gift
The outer world dissolved
Concern for appearances on its final legs
Tucked coolly in for death
Final stab at permanency and assurance taken
Prolonged periods of emptiness
Cup dry and waiting for fresh water
All comfort withdrawn in a one -way tide
Yet, instead of hellish waiting
I find, more often, silences.
I don’t wish to kill my art or myself anymore:
It just died over and over without the melodrama of suicidal ideation
How lonely was your bed?
If I present a face and am held accountable to it
the possibility that possibility is strangled spurs a visceral fear:
to be known
to be judged
to be trapped in a singular perspective
A poem and a song and a painting
For only a fool proclaims permanency within a
Merely, gloriously fleeting moment being celebrated not forever
Art is the work of charlatans and psychopomps
Of faeries and slipping breezes
Whispers and double takes
Laughter and bright colors
Tragedy and monochrome gapes
How might I slip through?
How might I keep it in no certain terms?
An act of innocence
Every worthy word a cliché and my only hill to climb is the disruption of it
To bring to the fore a timing and chaos which hurts when pain must and
Shivers you like something free and impossible, terrible and open can
Rush of a bird over face tilted suddenly back
Flash of indelible color and design
All that is left is a gasp
Halting briskness or
Sticky pulse or
Or over and over
A longing to fly
About the Author: Clay Hamilton
Clay Hamilton is most often introduced as a musician. Their work explores many mediums; painting, drawing, essay poetry, experimental film doo-das and movement research. She is an e-dharma artist friend of the blog author.