25
Mar
One of the challenges to my writing has been my reluctance to expose myself or others to the strange vulnerability that is created when you make art. This vulnerability is not just about so-called “identity art” or “personal art” but extends into the places where art becomes avant garde and/or political. I am not avant garde, (political, yes) but I often wonder about how people should take the things that I create out of experiences like observing strangers and having conversations. I made this one last night while on the phone with a friend talking about a relationship. What struck me was how close her grief, anger, and lament sounded so much like my own at one time. In fact, that grief was a blot, a black eye , if you will, over my creative thang. So, in the spirit of letting go, quitting revisions and do overs….
crying into the phone/it may be more drama later on/and the incongruencies sew themselves in with a steeple needle/what to believe when the negative sign is on you like the hawk/shit is not equal/ridiculous circumstances produce ridiculous results/u caint risk not lovin that man but u caint risk lovin him either/battery is outside in the dark in the exchange of wrists handshakes and immature shoulders/time is not a sacrifice/love is.
