Image: “Fragmented (Portrait of Charles Cicirella)” by Joni Soule, 2007
Word-Ghosts in the Ether
The words are here.
Then they’re gone.
Just like that.
I could feel them
See them and reflect upon them in my mind’s eye.
Now they won’t even look at me and refuse to respond to the simplest of requests.
You wouldn’t understand.
You are not a wordsmith.
Just another hired gun.
Just another word-whore whose only purpose is to win blue ribbons like some prized cow at the county fair.
I thought we were the same.
I thought we were in it to do the work and make an honest to God lasting impression.
I never quite understood that not everyone is inspired and that too many people are just in it to polish the chrome of their absurd egos.
I had a friend who was an action-painting-super-hero who did his art like he only had six months to live. He got it as he bled for his chamber-music-requiems and for all the braveclouds that will never have their very own silver lining because of budget cuts and because the beautiful people have sucked all of the oxygen out of the room.
The words are somewhere over there.
I tried to pick through the wreckage, but became stuck in the thickets and the awkward silences.
Now I’m gone.
Just like that I’m gone and there are no more songs. And everything is in the rearview like the distant memories of your first junior high dance and first real kiss.
Listen to Charles read this piece here.