i am either
Midwestern Poetry, By Terry Scott Niebeling
i am either
The day you have
is of your design.
as an old house with crying floorboards in the night
and a consistent leaky sink by day,
our skin becomes bagged and heavy,
and as malleable as putty.
The flaws emboldened—highlighted unique;
the scarring acne,
the rounded blister,
the wine-red blemish__
All beautiful characteristics,
endearing individuality to wear at the fore;
taken by some as unwanted gifts,
to hide with powdered veneer.
We all fall apart beautifully,
as tight constraints surrounding
fast loosened chains
with our appreciative perspectives,
on “I”, on “me”.
We all fall apart beautifully.
The eye of the beholder grasps us at a midmorning mirror,
as an instant fickle judgement flees,
assessment to be critically free of our character.
There is only too much time to critique.
And why waste a seventy degree day?
Sharing small town concepts,
language, in hopes to pave a path;
at a bar stool conversation,
after an empty whisky shot throat-sting,
as beer bubbles trace a 1/3 full pint glass.
One local could move forward with art,
or make it easy—take a step back.
Laugh , and seize the moment…
I think about it…
I say: but the proof is only if it kills you,
Bukowski said that,
I sort of believe the man.
We are not perfect artists, really—no one is,
the evidence is: we are still alive, mostly.
See: I’ve been to a few funerals;
I know the end of my story will be
surrounded by a shovel, dirt, words, and a box.
Then, a man I don’t know will tell others about me.
(The real artist is the priest who doesn’t know you acting like he does,
he swears to god. You were good, though god doesn’t understand death.)
Then, no more art will come out of you,
but they will hear it.
That is the perfect artist and art.
That is the truth, perhaps.