Musely

I was raised by the Nonappreciators.  The people who look at art and say, “I could do that.”  Art is not beautiful or unique; it is the generic result of idle hands.  The sunset can be declared miraculous, because it is something that we cannot create.  We can look at it and say, “I cannot do that, therefore it is beautiful.”  But man-made things are not awe inspiring.  How stifling can this viewpoint be creatively?  Why take the time to create something, put pen to paper, strike that brush against the canvas, if it is something that is inherently common?  For what do we all want but to believe that we are unique?  I find it boggling to imagine how many moments of inspiration are lost because I told my muse to go away.  She tapped and tapped at my shoulders, until they hunched over from the weight of words and images that were forever trapped in nonexistence.  Purgatory for inspiration.  She grew old and frail, refusing to go away, dragging me, zapping my energy, making my mind spin in circles.  I may not be ready to have an all-night, two bottles of wine conversation with her, but I am acknowledging her presence.  And she is beautiful, because she is common.  She is the common intellect of humanity, collected into a basin of ideas and imagination.  And she is trying to share.  Who am I to refuse this generosity?

Lost Indepenence

There is little known beyond these eyes
That stare so deeply into you,
Projecting my thoughts into the wrong frame,
Making everything unstable.
The wobbling of the rotations throws me off;
And I leap into the ideas of grandeur.
You stare, stare, unable to respond
To foreign ideas put into your mouth,
As you chew this newly formed cud.
Unable to dispel what isn’t yours, what isn’t mine,
Nascent cognition forced into being by our proximity.
We can’t push it out of our minds;
Once unleashed, it ricochets between us.
The wounds created will fester or heal,
Fate possessed by the entry angle, the withdraw.
Until we can no longer stand independently.

Essential Death

I will make a beautiful corpse one day

As the pink in my cheek, finally fades away.

And the cellulite drips, drips from my bones

While the flames lick the stretch marks,

Made from making my body a home.

The laugh lines will dissolve, along with my teeth,

No longer there to greet a stranger on the street.

My copper hair will dull and singe, right on the spot,

No wind to feather the strands to a knot.

The anxiety and memories will all meld to one,

And sift through a grate as they are finally undone.

What is left will be the essence of me, or is this a fallacy?

Will culture have found a way to bite through my bones?

Trickle into my marrow and delve further below?

The particles that I breathe sucked far into my soul,

Clogging and infecting until we are all but drones.

If even there is left a sliver of my soul,

Then a beautiful corpse I shall make one day.