The Artist

All week I’ve been struggling (I mean… seriously struggling…) to pick up graphic design and navigate the oasis of writer’s block. As I created one awful piece of typography after another while watching my fingers literally slip off of the keyboard as they dripped with sweat (probably had more to do with the fact that it’s 115 degrees outside and I don’t use the AC), I realized that art is hard… well for some of us. Below is a quote from Octavious Newman, designer of B3ar Fruit (here’s the whole speech):

“God’s a beast… I mean look at yourselves. Go outside, the sun is not wack… The stuff that God creates, it’s really dope… it really is.” – Octavious Newman

During my quite time today, I was reminded of the fact that God didn’t struggle with creation. He’s the most awesome poet of all time, his words created a literal world. And everything in it is always in style. Can you ever really tell Aurora Borealis that it’s not cool anymore? While I hope my own poems have some redeeming quality to them, God was the only fit to evaluate his creation.

And that goes for our own lives as well. God is creating sonnets, poems, concertos and ensembles, fresco, paintings, and graphic designs of the lives of His people (okay maybe not graphic designs…). While they may suck in the moment or don’t look all that hot from the ground view, He’s the only one fit to evaluate his creation… and for all intensive purposes… it’s art.

Below is a poem I wrote earlier today. I’ve also included a link to a site that has a few spoken word pieces on it. I hope they point you towards the Masterful Architect.

Satisfaction

Fingernails, ooze,

Dripping dollops of sulfur

Leaving a perfect canvas tainted.

Bleach and baking soda

Retreat to the shelter of paper towels

As the stain surges forward,

Engulfing the knuckles,

Swallowing the wrists.

Guilty and unclean,

A spiritual bulimic,

As stomach acid refuses to catalyze

Enzymes of esoteric promises.

Torah’s whole grains and fiber

prove to much for a fragile frame

Accustomed to the sanctuary of milky

Half-truths.

O to be satisfied…

Memories of famished and

Parched yesterdays bubble,

Boiling to the surface of a

Wheat grass tonic.

Adding hyssop and tomato paste,

The iron wool of a wooden cross

Scrapes skin from wrinkled fingers.

But o’ to be satisfied…

Somewhere in the pasture of purification,

Peace lies, waiting to be uncovered.

Somewhere beneath the layered dirt,

True love’s letter gazes back with

Unadulterated certainty.

As tender hands fold gingerly

Cupping a brittle assurance,

The hope of finding celestial courts

Burns anew as living water whispers

Confidence to cracked and splintered lips.

But oh gaze on you with rehabilitated eyes

For then I will be satisfied.