tired tonight...
sitting by a broken window, facing the darkness. the dull buzz of insects ebbs and then swells to near madness then silence. then the steady building of sound again.
I am tired tonight. but not a terrible tired. and while these may be the suicide days, the last gasp from the corpse of the American Dream, while my bones ache in my skin and my mind pulses against my skull with the beating of my heart, while my feet are for the moment too tired to run, I am not completely defeated.
I hold a paintbrush and smear vivid watercolor paint on thick torn paper. blue bleeds into gold into emerald into burgundy. the colors beat back the misery, they shine and reflect against the sweating walls, illuminate a small patch of darkness. they remind me that it is the attempt to live each day as your last that is the best kind of art. that sitting here painting in the midst of a world holding its breath awaiting the whims and machinations of evil, tiny eyed demon men with their glinting bloodstained teeth is as good a way to pass the time as any. writing a poem. reading a Henry Miller book. throwing a shredded ball to the panting dog by the light of a pale grey moon. sitting quietly in the silence.
tossing a gasoline soaked rag onto the remains of hope,
striking a match against your bootheel
laughing with honest joy
and
watching the colors dance in the
bright light
of the
flames.
I am tired but not beaten. it is important that we continue to live;
now go do something worthless and beautiful.
I am tired tonight. but not a terrible tired. and while these may be the suicide days, the last gasp from the corpse of the American Dream, while my bones ache in my skin and my mind pulses against my skull with the beating of my heart, while my feet are for the moment too tired to run, I am not completely defeated.
I hold a paintbrush and smear vivid watercolor paint on thick torn paper. blue bleeds into gold into emerald into burgundy. the colors beat back the misery, they shine and reflect against the sweating walls, illuminate a small patch of darkness. they remind me that it is the attempt to live each day as your last that is the best kind of art. that sitting here painting in the midst of a world holding its breath awaiting the whims and machinations of evil, tiny eyed demon men with their glinting bloodstained teeth is as good a way to pass the time as any. writing a poem. reading a Henry Miller book. throwing a shredded ball to the panting dog by the light of a pale grey moon. sitting quietly in the silence.
tossing a gasoline soaked rag onto the remains of hope,
striking a match against your bootheel
laughing with honest joy
and
watching the colors dance in the
bright light
of the
flames.
I am tired but not beaten. it is important that we continue to live;
now go do something worthless and beautiful.
posted by christopher cunningham at 11:35 PM
3 Comments:
no. thank you. I appreciate your kind words. email me your address and I'll send you something interesting, poetry wise: thelastpoet@hotmail.com and put the subject: animal life.
i agree with rachel. passion, honesty, inspiration; it's all there.
but she forgot about the vivid imagery your writing has. this is what kills me. what stands my arm hairs on end and sends shivers up my neck. the imagery. i've heard of all the words you use. am intimately aware of them, and have even used most (if not all) of them myself. but somehow, under your magic, they feel new and more powerful and alive.
another key thing i think is important to get out of rachel's post is "she has LOANED me several..."
LOANED! your poetry is so good that people don't want to let go of your books. they want to keep them for perpetuity, lest they find themselves in need and are without. i know the same holds true for me. i will NEVER part from my collection of cunningham. EVER.
I appreciate it you guys. I am blushing. who is this Cunningham guy anyway? j.b, you are too damn kind my man. you swing a typer with the best of them. thanks brother.
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