Artisan by Dan Joyce
The Bearing of the Soul
There is love and hatred in the bearing of the soul… in the honesty brutality… in the nude impure imperfect flesh… in the hidden secret from suburban reality. There is truth and fiction in the doors of perception… in the fragments of consciousness… the acid and whisky nakedness dancing… the nights and nights on end… the shattered dreams and sheltered youths… the eyes of the beholder… the minds of destruction. And who are you my father… and I that’s left to bear? The pieces of existential painted color by number and traced and journalized and written into to poem composed lost forgotten. You are my heritage. How shall I tell your truths? We are the cross of salvation, we are the nine inch nails driving into his palms and feet… we are the modern Rome… the selfish greedy loveless destiny. We are father and crucifixion. Now, you are but a memory… like a drift of a good vacation… you are better now lost and remembered than the experience I knew. Who are you my father? Are you God creator of man… seed that was planted creating me… love that was my incarnation? When born and lived and lost again, to whom do I turn? I am but a poor man as you left me… I have no family… I have no soul… I am just a beggar. What is left of our spirit? Am I not to paint? Am I not to write? Am I not to sing the bearing of the soul? Where in my madness are you? Where in another dimension… a mythology… and Heaven… a fairytale? Is this what is meant of life… an absurdity with no meaning… with no purpose… with no essence… that which make most sense only makes no sense at all, Tonight, I light an old cigar and cup of instant coffee… for you, my father, for you!