I yelled into a microphone to make sure you heard me,
I stood in the middle of the crowd so you’d see me.
You wanted me to draw rainbows and color the clouds pink but that was a no no for me.
I held my head up high and wondered why it even mattered to you ’till i figured out the reasons on my own.. It was because it doesn’t matter!
What mattered to me at this point was that there were no birds in the sky and that the sky was not even blue.
Stand still now, this will only hurt a little. you’ll be able to run afterwards, I promise.
It is pouring rain outside, “so maybe you can run next year.”
It felt like August but it wasn’t. It smelled like the tip of a mountain but it wasn’t. It tasted like rain coming down on my sealed lips but it wasn’t.
This is my invention of something original.. A melody that sounded from this world, perhaps.. But it is still mine. Say it is tainted, put it in the stereo, play it, chew on it, and throw it up.
It’s a stuck up.. Simple and complicated just like Rene Magritte’ Black Magic 1946. A story of a seed becoming a flower or a raisin that used be a grape. It lived only to become a material.
Next time in rains and there is a storm I’ll collect the water and everything that has been struck by lightning. I’ll catch the strong wind with knots and set them on a soft stone. I’ll dig a big hole in the backyard and bury all of this stuff and hope you’ll rise again from the dead.
The machine I brought home makes music. You can hear it if you lay still on the bed and quiet your breathing. You’ll need to close your eyes too for a minute. Absorb it and let it purify you. Then let the dirt on your hands comfort you. Give it a home.
Rise up.. I wish you would. I would be nicer this time.
Walk the land and bathe in the works I’ve created of stones.
Photo: Personal Work. Mixed Media: Smoke