Some art remains secluded, underground, by force, or
choice; some people were miscreants, became aware, searching for an exit: it
was time to teach me, to underscore elements, to whistle as they say. One might
have an issue with imperfection, chasing ribbons, indiscreet or chaste in a
sense. By what means to assess one’s worth? Where has one been, to determine
the value, the steed, the crest of others? I confess: more faux pas than many;
more terrors than souls; trying to decipher if art is discovered by the perfect
inability—to clear the wilderness—to strain at gnats and flies and flees. Let’s
be honest, it’s wider than a bee sting, more intrusive than a ram, and quick to
offend the senses—nothing terminal, or a violation of personhood, nothing a
person might vomit at: just plain stupidity, signs of essence, more to relying
on societal undertakings, merits, things one says are good. Should state those
rubies; they’re self-evident; and it meant so little. No carpet laid out; no
trophies given; not a grunion. Never fretted. Kept with the course. Admired a
few, had no business realizing them. Loved a few. Had a life with them. Moved
into differing opinions. Some are offended. It shouldn’t be. We exist and
augment existence through given talents. One circle knows me; another doesn’t; I
cater to the circle that knows me. I speak to poverty, wealth of the good, past
agonies, and the change of many living like Malcom once did. To be refused in
one circle, isn’t evidence of a person’s worth. It’s unfortunate, but one
learns to ink. More to our understanding of what’s appropriate, what’s acceptable.
