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Monday, April 4, 2011

Charcoal on White Paper

Charcoal on White Paper

There is that first stroke

The one that hits the keyboard

The one that breaks

the solid blue foreverness of the swim lane

The one that puts dark charcoal

on perfectly white paper.

A river courses then

past the ennui

Past reluctance,

past procrastinating to the

Goddess of “But I just can’t now you know…”

There’s muscle spirit bone and tendon

intent now

On blending blues and drenching paper.

I dive into my liquid paper landscape

Head first and rise head first

Birth position, craving breath

My flesh cools to this new world

Warms to its own blood.

Its not possible now to stop

until the shore

Until the edge,

until the fire is brought

safely to land

and the words brought to flames

Until the white is revealing no longer virginity

But canvassing the stream of life.

Every stroke is your face in that frame these many years since--

I a girl child walking

defiant around my dad’s casket

Match in hand;

Every smudge another erasure

of harsh words and stinging pain of maternal wrath

Every kick another length away from the words “You never will”

“You never will finish

You never will accomplish

You never will….

You are a jack-of-all-trades,

master of none.

You never will.”

When I see the luxury of journals

Dating back to when a pencil was first held

I have to swallow rage that is chemical.

When I am with those that scale their walls

And write exits from all that kills

To enter their creation


I swim again

free in the water

that always freed me

I write again

in the words that make me

part of the fires

Late at night

in secret places

working in the various camps.

I draw reality

To change the world one stroke,

Head turning, muscles relaxed and active

To the next...

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