I begin to think - poem

Scattered words no more than usual
no less
than stinging
on a screen
no more duck's back water-roll today
today
I begin to think
I begin to think that these words are enough
I begin to think that I have words
Of my own
I begin to think
I'm worth the consideration
Of recognition

you
would rather be right than happy
you
would rather win
than say I'm sorry
you
would rather be here
than
more
I begin to think
And I begin to speak
I challenge
I reject
the hypothesis of misinterpretation
I reject the ideographs of emotion painted on your caveman walls
I say
Enough
I say
Stop
And you don't
You can't back down or back off and I don't want to be public
but in public
you may behave
more
acceptably
I begin to think that
you
push me too far
too hard
too often
I reject the premise that in being hurt I'm wrong
I speak, finally and set a limit
I say
enough
to the overwhelming amount of
juvenilia couched as humor
And still
you
don't listen
I begin to think
you don't know
how
to hear
the things
that matter
until
it's
too
late

Shaking the emotional tree: Art and experience

From time to time, I will expound on certain thoughts I have about being an artist. You can see earlier thoughts, here and here. I ask a lot of questions, I'm pensive and analytical.The rickety audio of my observations and experiences is here, Lives on Display and Beauty were my commentary after 2 seasons of slam poetry contrasted with a more academic point of view. The original poetry/blog archive, with much meandering and wibbling about art, is here, have at it.

I often refer to my first year, post-trauma, as the year I spent as a walking corpse. The truth is, I'd been flayed alive. What callouses I'd built up to the world, were ripped away.

Last night, I watched this and wept. With both the joy of recognition and the rippling memory of agony. It's about halfway through the video that the, "A-HA! That's exactly right! Oh my god..." *wibble* moment occurs.
There are extraordinary souls in this world. Watch that, and you're watching one of them.

When you carve away all the layers of ego and bullshit, the making of art is about making something whole in ourselves. Making something outside of ourselves that can be shared, is a method of communication. We mend ourselves and each other in tiny ways. It can mean everything, at the right moment.

fever in the blood, parts 1 & 2 (poem)

Part One (illness)
skin feels dry and tight
like something becoming leather
in desert scorching heat
mouth unquenched
despite swallowing an oceans' worth
eyes burn with an unnameable fire
as if
the eyes of a witch
at the stake
the wicked bacilli in the blood
at war with the white knights
A crusader's errand
to stamp out
the pillaging of my body

Part two
Mouth becomes arid while palms sweat
skin burns with anticipation
hunger
drives
nonsensical words from lips glossed
cherry red
thirst compels
as liquor loosens the
social inhibitions
and a highly-colored flush
suffuses the cheeks
bright eyes given depth in dark rooms
echoing laughter born of longing
as a girl
turns to a boy
neither of them young enough for that anymore
turns to him
and tells him she love him
asking why
someday
isn't
now
living with the fever between them
barely contained