Home Is Anywhere You Hang Your Head

There should be an honest-to-goddess (that bitch) term for the need to both get away from your life along with the simultaneous need to keep that life an “ever fix-ed mark”.

There probably is, or at least there might be, but it's one that I do not have at my disposal. Today the house was too small. Today the world was too big. Today Time both loomed and loped away. Today, today was too Now and too Always, too.

He dances around words because sometimes the flailing of limbs to the flat hand striking out a rhythm on a hard, flat surface is not only what's called for, it's what's required. He dances, motion in place, place in motion, time ticking and tocking and beats ignoring a clock.

He sings because there are too many spaces between words, too many gaps too large make for too many falls, too many times making prosody out of prose.

He draws because what he sees is not what is seen. He sketches because Devil is in the details and the Devil's been having too much fun with him lately so he avoids Devil's neighborhood.

He watercolors because he's no good with black and white and thick and thin and sharp and smudged and gray is nothing but compromise. He watercolors, too, because it dreams better than oil paints or crayons.

He sees the canvas and avoids it, hides it behind boxes, presently, which should have seen oblivion by now.

He holds on to That Which Survives because not everything does; he holds on to That Which Still Survives because everything dies.

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