Word Pastels

“I AM FROM………”     by Susan O’s Brother

I am from a place between two worlds filled with flames of light and shadows of living soot.

I am from an upstairs closet where windows clatter to the elevated trains and the radiator belches steam when the basement behemoth grows hungry.

I am from a crib dangling over the endless darkness where the wild creatures live.

I am from the branches of a leafy tree in a field of daylight where I first heard the Voice.

I am from an acorn, eaten, that should have been planted.

I am from a world where art is real, but color is not.

I am from music and poetry, science projects and rocket ships.

I am from a funny school, Masconoment, and a funny park, Mashashimuet.

I am from cold November nights where evil pierces the darkness and meteors skate trails across the black sky of death.

I am from a Dummer place where wonder soars above Camelot, where aristocrats and debutantes park their children.

I am from a Tufter place where books like stones pile high on my heaving chest till I yield.

I am from London in winter where the Voice wrestles my heart and touches my hip.

I am from Paris in April, Arles in May, and a mythical place called, “L’Isle-sur-le-Doubs.”

I am from the Lone Star, a lone star, the writing on the wall, “mene mene tekel upharsin.”

I am from lobster claws and demon tales.

I am from Veritas.

I am from Billy Graham and bathroom bills, steepled dungeons, and the Queen of Heaven.

I am from a nonfiction, fiction, that in a dream of passion, could force his soul so to his own conceit.

I am from vanity of vanities, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.

I am from a place between two worlds filled with flames of light and shadows of living soot.

I am from a place where I do not reside, do not belong, untamed by art, caned by poetry, lost in quantum uncertainty.

I am from that place, until the Voice calls me home.