Have you ever stared for so long at a blank page that you could almost make out some gesture, some movement gated in the sleeping color? As though the page, like a mute man struggling to communicate his soundless poetry, intends something unique and momentary for your eyes alone. At times I cant cope with such a stillness
and give up.
After a time, I come back to the page to find blurred images smeared upon it.
coiling beams of accidental delight, neon tatoos alluding the prison of categories. The shadows of animals and buildings that only might have been, described by brightness along the brim of a mathematical fantasy. A stain or a careful masterpiece?
Are those fudgey inklings words?
I can't make them out.
Names for people that could have saved me from pain, or jogged my memory of what the image they gaurded truly portrayed. Had my frenzied thoughts painted their own self portraits upon it ? Have the faces of my past remained fixed upon the desserted canvas, like ancient flies entombed in amber? Or combined like ungated fluids into one vivid expression that, like the sum of every messenger's mission, is complete;
the only one of my works I would willingly submit to the last judgement with a humble understanding of its perfection.
I stared so hard at the empty page until the impossible vanished without a trace. I dreamt about what I had lost and never had, and cried with tears that fertilized the land.....
until......
until i barely saw something emerging,
I cried until i saw your face.
my tears may have fertilized the earth