reciting lines out of black authors' cookbooks for the soul
im walking in an out of combustible buildings
wanting to give and reach and think
but the purposes are all scattered and completely
fused into my purple case by the door.
the ease of running away
from my hauntings. my deadbeats, my own scissors.
the porches sway in the dusk..
the spanish mosses breezing filled with mites and aromas.
this place brings me closer to the surface of things
and farther from the journey.
im not a seeker. or a peacemaker.
i have chosen meaning maker. and its in those folding
chairs. i sit and snapshot and begin my operas.
2 comments:
And how does one become a meaning maker?
you warp things alittle. trap them release them.. paint them infuse them...weave them. craft them...its what artist are. creating meanings in layers, in film in words...in fabrics...its idealistic and something to shoot for...but i make meaning all day...in my mind with others and my favorite times are with people like you...
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