mmmmdcccxcvii

The Cotton Ball Machine

     Dear Sir:
     My mouth has meanings
     It had not wanted to argue.
                       —Jack Spicer

I can be okay with being an
awkward cliché.  If the chicken
is the anxiety, then the egg is
the anxiety.  Whether the chords

clash from the beginning, some
where in the middle or not until
the very end, it doesn’t matter.  If
I were an expert, I’d say what mat

ters is that one develops a means
to vanquish it, to reduce it, at least.
I picture all the ways in my mind to
articulate (for me, in my head, the

picture more of a scene, a diorama, a 

chart, a photo with an image of me with 

a magic wand in my hand, glitter swirl

ing around the tip of it) anxiety into non-

existence.  The only thing is me, clean
from such degradation, floaty, eloquent
(with my mouth this time, not confined
within my thoughts).  But those thoughts,

moving from inside to outside, as if in a
gorgeous setting, unpopulated, natural,
there has to be the sound of a burbling
brook, even if it is unseen, it might as

well be unseen.  All of the jangled nerves
ease, all of the discomfort is soothed as
mentally the diorama is moved from my
head onto the stage that holds my presence,

that holds nothing but my eloquence, an
appropriate confidence.  And then there’s
an audience.  I look into their eyes and
can know the clarity of what I’m saying,

of what I am presenting or performing, 

of who I am.  The fluidity of freedom, 

the euphoria of engagement, of being 

seen, and the many directions each 

collaborator takes what I’ve so 

happily and so freely given.