Plagued with Longing

7.08.25

Chicory on the roadsides. Soy sprouting up through scorched rye scorched not by sun no no no scorched by man. I don’t have answers. But I’m plagued with longing for another way. And I know that way begins in this place and lives in this place and ends in this place. But I have this mess in Baltimore that I’m mopping up. I don’t want to mop anymore. I’m an artist. But it makes me human. Oh so human. And isn’t that the truest art of all… The artist walks alone. The city is filled with idealistic tyrants. The countryside is carved into stone. But I’d rather sharpen my chisel and have the July sun beat down on my back. I’d rather earn my keep than wade through gutters of city streets. My mind feels like I’m walking through water. Though maybe instead my thoughts flow still and reflective and fast and ferocious yes yes I’m waiting for that one thought to come to rescue me. You seem happy my dinner guest said to me. I’m never happy I thought. And I smiled. There’s a shallowness… prepping prepping prepping shallowness I’m missing something I’m reaching for something… time to become… the disciple. Devout. To what? I have no religion. There’s something here though. Wisping through the tasseled corn. Sticking to the edge of the knife. Setting inside the custard. Wiggling with the lemon verbena jelly. Creaking with the floors and dripping with the midday sweat on forehead on concentrated brow on nose tip. Yes I follow my hands to purpose. And I leave not my mind far behind.