A Work in Progress
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O-one-fifty-six and I’m trying hard to find where the feeling lives. I want to coax out its wet little nose and see the shy little eyes that peep out through the masque of love. I want to convince it of its safety, encourage it to relax, feel safe, join the party and dance. I want it to stand on its back legs and show me its beauty, proud and tall and breathing. C’mon lil’ fellah, what makes your skin tingle? What makes your chest rise? What sparks your mind, makes your hands reach out, inspires desire, causes real surprise? But all of my questioning changes his expression and it’s anger I now surmise in the oppression of freedom he could never explain because with freedom comes expectation and with expectation, the pain. And I don’t understand why he doesn’t make the most of life’s gift because I don’t see the rift I create in his love when he hates a performance that will surely berate all that he is because an act is an act and always too compact to do justice to life, to create portraiture, to make art of his finer lines and it comes with a terrible start when he knows he cannot cope or hope to carry with import all that he feels and he reels as the message contorts and he screams his continuing nightmare as the tears stream and gather in the anguish that forgets the shyness in his wet little eyes. ~ EB |
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