I can feel myself on the inside –
Do I have enough creative words?
Is this the mark of depth and genius? Couldn’t I do better?
That which pulls me between a sober minded conservative Christianity – pious devotion – and a wildly liberated homosexual spirituality –
One artist makes smudged marks of charcoal on paper – blow it up
and it belongs on a gallery wall.
The Artist is falling from her pedestal.
When I said artist – did I mean painter? Did I mean she who stands before an easel and wields the color wheel in expressive gest?
A Wanderer – someone who believes that the aura around the construction paper star on my ceiling promises a pathway to Truth.
This pressure to ‘outward face’ – the contrast and simmering embarrassment as I realize – artists are supposed to be fluid in their expression – their need to make marks –
Or am I the Philosopher? She who is driven by the validation of having uttered a complete thought.
Ok then –
Sitting on a rock
Breathing the air of the eagles –
being alone.
Being everyone’s Truth – showing how life is a fleeting novelty – an expansive
constant.
There is no place small enough.
No simple words
No answers – no rest in knowing.
Can I make you a picture that you will want to hang on your wall?
Can I write you a word that will hold you above the abyss?
Can I pray a prayer that even the rocks can sing?
From I Used To Write Free, 2022-2024
Powerful.