Enter into life maimed.
This is a hostile environment for artists.
They want grind, production, grueling rules. You must present a deliverable.
I’m not much in contention because systems need to operate.
Yet I see how we all inadvertently influence each other.
We market the production.
We produce the market.
And where does the artist rest?
We are feeble, selfless, misplaced.
We are outcasts * orators
hurt with oil * watercolor * acrylic.
We categorized it under
“Arts & Entertainment”
“ *** & Recreation”
meaning, “secondary…..later, later, and after.”
But we are threads in this fabric, too!
Raw and unwoven, offensively textured
We come in yellow silk, yarn neon green
And gray from the bass of a humming cello.
Artist need not fight for their place in society.
We already / merely reflect it.
A wife reflects on the history and evolution of her tender relationship with her husband.
i am your wife.
i am sweet smile at the party when we met.
i am exchanging phone numbers in the crowd.
i am listening to first message when you called the day after.
i am idle chatter before asking me to meet you.
i am timed giggles and clever comebacks on the phone.
i am counting down to lunch date – in ten minutes.
i am bold conversation over Chinese take-out.
i am reassurance that i’m single.
i am compassionate listener, noticing you’re not eating.
i am tentative to tell you truths you’re not ready for.
i am sobbing with ache in your car.
i am stuttered expressions of love.
i am fire with resentment.
i am not answering your calls.
i am exasperation to pursue this.
i am phone calls for $20.
i am revelation of your situations.
i am help without questions.
i am ensuring your appetite.
i am focus on keeping you comfortable.
i am rearranging my days to be with you.
i am observing your progress.
i am happy for accomplishments.
i am stepping aside to let you step up.
i am nervous about two carats.
i am ten cities apart from you.
i am holding down our fort.
i am war with illness.
i am stubborn to be defeated.
i am hoping you keep your doubts to yourself.
i am late night waiting.
i am three-day breaks, understanding.
i am groundless, sporadic debate.
and in all time, i am
that now my smile is sweet because
i am your wife.
I didn’t know that I could see in
Your sketches: torrential rain and fusion upbringing
Through paint strokes and finger-smudged corners
The clarity from adoption
Puckered through the wholeness of a mural.
It was new to me that I could sense
The rage and indulgence from your
Sobering peek at motherhood.
And here is your art.
Amongst pencils, canvases, spray cans and a foolish yet purposeful
Douse of glitter.
I am so proud of you, Sister.
This beautiful piece you have drawn.