by Glenn Marchand
Some art remains secluded, underground, by force, or choice; some
people were miscreants, became aware, searching for an exit: it
was time to teach me, to underscore elements, to whistle as they
say. One might have an issue with imperfection, chasing ribbons,
indiscreet or chaste in a sense. By what means to assess one’s
worth? Where has one been, to determine the value, the steed, the
crest of others? I confess: more faux pas than many; more terrors
than souls; trying to decipher if art is discovered by the perfect
inability—to clear the wilderness—to strain at gnats and flies and
flees. Let’s be honest, it’s wider than a bee sting, more intrusive
than a ram, and quick to offend the senses—nothing terminal, or a
violation of personhood, nothing a person might vomit at: just
plain stupidity, signs of essence, more to relying on societal
undertakings, merits, things one says are good. Should state those
rubies; they’re self-evident; and it meant so little. No carpet laid
out; no trophies given; not a grunion. Never fretted. Kept with the
course. Admired a few, had no business realizing them. Loved a
few. Had a life with them. Moved into differing opinions. Some
are offended. It shouldn’t be. We exist and augment existence
through given talents. One circle knows me; another doesn’t; I
cater to the circle that knows me. I speak to poverty, wealth of the
good, past agonies, and the change of many living like Malcom
once did. To be refused in one circle, isn’t evidence of a person’s
worth. It’s unfortunate, but one learns to ink. More to our
understanding of what’s appropriate, what’s acceptable.