I am visually bombarded daily (much to my delight) with gay artists doing things. Creating an endless stream of beauty. I feast on the images until I'm full, then break for digestion, and crawl back for more once my hunger returns. I am not an artist. I've longed and yearned for many years to be one. To have the ability to create such vibrant things with a camera, or a pen or a yard of fabric. I was gifted, instead, with a unrefined urge, to string words together. To place symbols side by side until they turn into images in our head. I am not trained, nor am I concise. I am mostly unprepared and fully incapable. Yet, the urge remains. I write, and I write, and I erase, until I've, somewhat, formed a few thoughts that typically lean towards disconnected. I create a distance between myself and the world with my words. A bigger distance than I actually feel. Some people enjoy my tone, some don't relate, and some hate. Much like art.
I am not an artist, though. This trade, this knack, this urge to write is a tool. The voice I portray is the artist. It is the creator of magic. It comes from me, but is not me. What you feel when you read, is the art of the voice who speaks it. Being a writer is like being a ventriloquist. The show couldn't be done without the actor, but the beauty comes from the doll. Without the doll, the actor is nothing. Without the voice I create, I am nothing. I am nothing. I am nothing. I am a stream of syllables in a void of the mind. I am the voice in your head. I am what I pretend to be. I am what you make me out to be. I am not an artist.
~ ~ ~
Brown and amber tiles under toenails.
Curved protein at the base of a figure.
Ridges of dead cells lift and stamp on dirty clay.
Carrying mind and soul to Beverly.
Carrying body and build to Vermont.Sparkling light atop poles guide the way home.
Guide the collection of atoms to warmth.
The shimmering lantern at the door.
Heat simmers on the back of a hand.
Heat simmers in his loins.Brown and red scabs on the beds of nails.
Chewed bits crust for protection.
Tiny crisps of skin overlay youth.
Holding it all inside.
Holding it in place for light touches.
