Art is fart, better out than in (someone pretending not to quote someone) I feel like something's made a home on the tip of my tongue Or a thorn's buried in an embedded callous somewhere on me, in me, that no one will ever find except maybe I might find it--by luck or accident or concerted effort If I run into the right circumstances, peers, light-- and those things I call triggers start being experiences again New and easily digested I'm lucky that I know it's possible because I forgot for a while Or maybe I'm forgetting now But for a few years I wasn't intensely aware and afraid of death. I was productive. I was productive and suicidal which in my case at least, was the opposite of intense awareness and fear of death. I was suicidal and I didn't really want to die. I read and listened and watched art, poetic representations and I flirted. I'm not suicidal anymore and I want to die and that scares me. I've seen and listened to and touched raw material. Senseless cavernous ugly raw material that isn't really processed. Poetry is a by product Not costly but invaluable art marketed to the flirtatious and full, marketed to faraway buyers On holiday, nobody frames postcards, they send them Because most people can't keep immensity to themselves I still don't understand the word loss but I'm starting to understand why |