with incredible people. reflections shoot back the truth. and the love. and the ugly. and its crazy. milwaukee was a moment that i may never forget. not so much the slammaster's meeting. but the connection that re-ignited with a woman i truly admire. she makes me want to write poems about being better. even in the most fragile of times. she shows me beauty in vulnerability. and life in art. life in art. life because of art. she is me. the reason that i make it make sense when i want to give up because, it doesnt make sense. not to normal people, anyway. but to us. poets and dancers, painters, scultpers, singers: artists - we find solace and chaos in the word, the movement, the hands. and when something outside of that creative force, threatens our productivity, if we're lucky, we produce more. more beauty than we've ever known, cause only the heartbroken have the gumption to get out the truth. they've already lost what glue held them together. they have nothing to lose.
and when you try to have the nuclear family. the fairytale that the world spoonfed us, you find the crossroad, ready to penetrate your facade with some real life shyt. some only in the movies shyt: unbelievable, i cant believe it happened to me shyt. and it makes you wonder. second guess and begin to hate the art inside of you. until you can no longer deny the pull. the need to push out your voice. and others gravitate to your light, so its even harder to deny its some dream you had, while you slept next to your soulmate, your lover, your enabler. you want to be happy with a person that makes you happy. but you want to be happy with your art. and its an unfair battle. so the question is: why is it so hard for artists to find and stay loved...?
as a touring poet, i can remember how lonely it was, offering yourself on stage for 20 minutes at a time, then again off stage, then again at the all night eating spot and then you are left alone with your adrenaline rush. left to talk to the shadows and the corners and the tv, and if you're lucky - your sleepy better half over hundreds of miles away via telephone. that life is a hard one. only those surviving thru it can explain the despair. some of them find solace in other facets of that world. but those are just easier ways to the destruction of your soul. in my opinion. and i have many. if you know me personally. this isnt even a poem. its the honesty exercise i commissioned of myself this morning. i don't know what it means. just that i know that i am beginning to see the hardest part of love and life is meaning it -- to find it in sea of worthlessness, is a blessing. to hold it close - is a test. to hold yourself closer, rather than trigger buttons of self-destruction, can become a distraction. and most of us artists - could care less anyway. happy, in love, and emotionally and creatively fufilled doesn't sell well in the art stores. ive checked.
so where does that leave us. the ones attempting to balance the weight of the world and the weight of our heart? what statue will be made in the honor of the woman that loved her family enough, she cut the core of her creative soul for it to flourish? who will make the bumper stickers for the man that rather get on stage and say a poem before going home to his wife, rather than be admonished for not sleeping with the same fans he loves entirely with his words. how will a week off for the slain artists look in a calendar setting? and which state will take a vacation because of it? when will it be worth it? this life that dares us to dream big before sledge hammering our soul down to a manageable size...