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encaustic
I am not a stoneware vase to be set at a certain angle (silent currents intuit these things). I move, breathe, think & feel despite a tingling tripping the spine static in the brain, pain pressing the curved backsides of eyeballs no aspirin can soothe no combination of notes no hand on drumskins can assuage. now, laughter might erase or deep sleep shake loose. o queer twist-on-a-stick, to want only an effigy! a shape to touch bend fill then break. to hold at a distance to light & leave. but I am none of these. no ceremonial object, I come. I am the ceremony, the weather. & weather surprises, rearranges, sweeps through, invigorates & yes, clears the way, provides the killing frost. framed & matted, I am the print lifting myself from the paper, the woman-in-oils stepping from the gallery wall twisting up her hair escaping between door & lintel (hints of summer in the air), the marble figure flying minus drape or extremities. no more pedestals! no track lighting! to fix beeswax, paint & dye requires heat in the end. & if thoughts do precede words they then become lovers, they listen, they learn to speak with each other. & if they do run in our veins, climbing upstream, fish fins & sorrow, surely they will find a way to you.
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