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.
When I wrote poems in October
You kissed my fingers
With permission to write
And all such verses formed their allegiance to you
With those poems in October
Not once did I stutter
The blurbs and ramblings of uneasiness
Nor did you hear stories of when
My senses went mute and numb
And brown eyes and skin tear into a revelation
Your stillness suffocates pulse called “togetherness”
After those poems in October, the rains followed.
If July could be romantic,
With radio of medley and preoccupation
And disturbance and defeat
Instead, you compose with chalk of new
Erotic lullaby of visits
Drenched in July
Thrusts swallowed on vanilla tea tenderness
Pepper our time with futures pure
Blinded by glares of sunrise and confession, singed
From hostile observation
Remedy your tension
With ginger kisses
And blend violet forgiveness
I wish I could hold on to this feeling
With knowing and youthfulness
Forced impishly into a jar
When I start to fret and demand answers with abrasive conclusiveness
I will dip my fingers into that jar
Smooth on reassurance
Let it tingle like aloe or cotton
Sting like witch hazel and assign the astringent of confidence
Air out the cuts and gashes of misdirected angst
Engage in the refreshing ritual
I will sign the heat in July
Dress my penmanship with the rains of October
And I will love you
With calendared devotion
All the months of the year