Purveyors of Fine Art
The end of another Indiana summer, the likes of which has rarely been experienced in the whole of our history, has now officially come and gone. The only reminder of its existence is just another “X” indelibly carved on to the calendar of an undeniably dystopian year. A solitary mark pulling us all closer to the frozen stagnations of the impending winter, lurking threateningly just on the horizon.
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It is the kind of late summer night that feels overly ripe for confessions. It is the kind of night that lingers and churns, as the bitter words balk and hesitate on the tip of a dry tongue. Words that yearn to be screamed out from the very rooftop of a small blue house cornered nakedly in the broken heart of a City of Wayne. Words aching for the altruistic freedoms promised by honest artistic exclamation. Words that instead inexplicably cling tenaciously to the last gasp of decent decorum and the inherently flawed rules of a supposedly polite society that was anything but polite to me, in all the years spent in this shitty little flyover town so full of fucked up perspectives and priorities and …
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I am teetering on the unpredictable edges of stability tonight, clinging hard to the seductive possibility of the crisp simplicity promised by the next honest breath rhythmically stolen. Familiar ghosts in unfamiliar locations prostitute out their secrets in the echoing tomb of another overnight introspection, busking themselves indiscriminately out to a perpetually disinterested crowd. They linger obscenely in unwelcomed multi-part messages written in the peculiar genius code of unique failure, combining together to tell the greater story of a far lesser man. A diaphanous curtain is drawn against the invasively embarrassed skeletons of my limited possibilities, so elusively unstable in their underlying structure. My rotten and co-dependently interwoven musculature binds dishonestly upon that floundering foundation, holding disappointingly firm until ultimately bonding with achingly brittle bone to …
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DISCLAIMER: I am fine. No need to text, call, or post. Just another dark night of the soul spent inside my head within the confines of this City of Wayne. And I’m getting the demons out in the most transparent manner available to me. Because fuck secrets. But if you, or someone you know, is currently struggling, there is no shame in reaching out to the N.S.P.L: 1-800-273-8255. There are seldom healthy choices left to make when drowning unsupervised in the exhausted collapse of another bottle’s last splash. There are usually just invasive regrets that linger in the shadows, as the day inevitably surrenders itself over to the dark, an opaquely familiar and dependable foe so persistently insistent in its tick-tock regularity. The steadily irregular rhythm …
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I am constantly burdened by the persistence of memory. Reticent voices long discounted still ring hard in my head, echoing in the abandonments of singular infections still festering. Silhouettes of possibility linger stubbornly in the tenuous fringes of a near total artistic collapse, refusing to budge from the balcony view of my corruption. Shadows of former glories undocumented shatter the steady focus of consistency, poisoning the well and tarnishing the intentions born of unavoidable confrontations. I carry the balance of experience across the swamps of my confusion, struggling to gain solid footing in a world that just keeps shifting in its decay. I crumble under the weight of my definition unfairly gained in the heated fling of unexpected disagreements. I constantly exude the stink of predictable …
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