How We Burn
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Ok.
I will do a little art.
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I remain a stubborn, willful man. Ignorant, prone to making the same mistakes over and over. Blind. Fear-driven. Lazy and indulgent.
But I tear at the walls around my heart.
Would I really destroy them?
Or do I just like the exercise, knowing they'll grow back?
*
I dunno.
*
Now I aim to lay out on the back deck in the dappled shade of the Japanese Maple and read "The Chosen Soldier" by Dick Couch while I sip from a small glass of frozen Ketel One and listen to the mad birdsong that fills the air in our yard.
I suggest you do likewise, in the manner of your own choosing.
*
We will too soon cease our burning.
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Namaste.
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(PS- I think this is some shit-hot art, personally.)
posted by tearful dishwasher at 1:51 PM
5 Comments:
I like mad birdsong too
yes, sir, you do art and listen to the mad birdsong...
I'm like some mad birdsong, too, but I have a sleeping dog who badly needs to go to the groomer...
thank you...
nurse myra-
it seems like the universe is speaking through them, saying "I'm here, I'm here! I'm alive!"
Or maybe its just birds talking.
Melissa-
thanks for stopping by!
I have been reading your writing for awhile; the artwork you post is so strong, and your ruminations resonate deeply. i live in Maine, and feel a kinship of geography and spirit.
thank you,
Susan
Just this morning, I was watching a sparrow perched at the tippy top of the bush that borders my patio. He was singing his little lungs out.
It was a mad little bird song.
And it was a very much a "I'm here alive right here right now fucking out loud so you can hear me" song.
We are all singing our mad bird songs, each in our own way.
That's what your art is, brother.
It's your mad bird song.
I don't know about the rest of y'all, but I'm still burning.
Singing, in my own way.
And burning.
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