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Universal Truths One night, Edgar Allan Poe walks behind me, shoving heavy-handed pocket watch, into my pocket, as I pick it up, gleaming against the back stitched seams, while Einstein, amidst Heaven’s clouded open fields, writes formulas of which he doesn’t understand, and for some reason, I do. At the time, half past 8 seems like forever and ever, as it slows past, writing for him like the genius in my head, who sits at a typewriter desk, endlessly, master plotting things to say, but for some reason, they mean jibberish, compared to creating God, making revolving sciences of genius. I begin to wonder if all these writers, if artists, geniuses, creators, are as misunderstood as they seem to be, as awkward as they seemed, writing at the same desks, where dunces carve their names into broken wood frames, being as creative as they did on their final essays. How many songs come from words on bathroom stalls, and how many teachers wonder what molecular formula makes students brain processes, how much time we can listen to silence, in an hour, a day, and think miraculous things of scatterbrained nonsense, how ironic the world can be. If I could create God in my fingertip, a pinprick, somehow I create clones upon clones with every poem, every word I speak, and if I could structure death as a brief absence, an abscess of imperfection that cowers in the corner, I would keep death as beauty, and genius as life. I found typewriter man singing songs in my head, like those he sings in verse, in poetics, he clings to the heads of students as they strive to learn, teaching to others, in our rat race headaches, living bodily woes as only second nature, the first being, philosophical inquiry, the oval shaped fields of knowledge. Cradling fetal generations with the innate thirst, our parents, grandparents, and former selves, calmed by the knowledge of history, while doubt looms endlessly over our heads, asking questions formulate down the chain of being, until we learn the finality of the world ourselves, until we die. Death strives to be reborn, wandering through English castles like a heretic, his intense voice ringing church bells, black magic hues, and the living believe, every bell a former self, another bit of security that makes mental growth insecure, abolishing the rules made of stone. Awaiting the hour of reprisal, our time slips away, beaded with sweat poured from hours, of figure born static, lacerated intensity, pours forth from pens like hands of a watch, an hour, minute, second, passes, and someone dies, how short life can become within the quest for truth, justice trapping students in purgatory. The knowledge of mathematical flowers, breathing beings, chemical makeup, astounds as I watch Poe’s pocket watch, revolving and turning, like mass tornados, circular cyclones swallowing up the world, as fragments dissipate, and settle into dust, my world backstitched into a pocket.
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