long living
by Stephen Mead
Voices I know, just in from the rain, that sweet strange wet embrace, fingers on droplets, through glistening strands & mouths, eyes full, luminous, really all there is to want amid such pallor falling. Voices, I know, it’s crazy to be so enamored by the silvery, deep dusk husk of sighs, each whisper of whiskey somehow purely sensuous, an intrigue to die for.
I want to advise you: Don’t bother. Worship is tedious or, in any case, the impressions made, honors won, all rather child’s play, be blasé, have Savior-faire, though that’s the way fading queens may cover what means so much it’s sort of terrible. Yes, it’s sort of terrifying & hilarious, I know: voices, the excitable tango, that wilderness chase, hard-to-get, the passion’s hunger mark creating slave brands or partners in crime, give’n take along nights, sonatas of wine, roses & days of comfort, vulnerable: requited, unrequited absorbed by all nerve endings.
All nerve endings absorb voices, journeys, I know, sentimental, searing, I remember a maxim: never think being full is not a blessing for so many mouths have died in real oppression, war, famine, have died not knowing what spirits may grow empty without, the savored bliss of lips starving even in the thick of necessities, meals well-prepared, well, so that’s the story: voices, I know, at least we’ve had ours.
Resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall, Stephen Mead is a retiree whom, throughout all his pretty non-glamorous jobs still found time for writing poetry/essays and creating art. Occasionally he even got paid for this. Currently, he is trying to sell his 40-year backlog of unsold art before he pops his cogs: https://www.artworkarchive.com/profile/stephen-mead
