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• 1 2021-04-23T15:16:43+00:00 A Stain on the Pavement: A Poem 29 Object 2 Submission plain 2021-05-13T15:01:38+00:00

  By Christopher Chiasera

  AFTER LONG, dreary days
  of heavy rain,
  pouring down from
  thick, black
  cumulus paintbrush strokes
  that puddle in the mud,
  and rot
  grassy roots,
  flooding out the flowers
  with watery drink,
  drowning
  the budded sprouts
  who peek their heads above the surface,
  a single slug
  slowly rolls its warm 
  body
  over the tough perforation
  of asphalt and dirt.
  
  his moist skin
  seizes with effort
  and the length of his body
  throbs,
  wiggling in the
  mud-dirt,
  pressing against
  the border
  that splits flowerfield
  and parking lot.
  he
  juts his face
  from the gelatinous mass of
  the rest of him,
  forward,
  into the air,
  hoping to
  bring with it
  everything behind,
  trailing his own wetness
  across the silt
  to trail it, instead,
  across the vast plain
  of hardened tar
  not so far
  ahead.
  
  he does not know that,
  tomorrow,
  once the clouds have cleared
  and the sun is yet again
  let rise from the horizon
  and into the sky,
  he will have been
  boiled
  to little more than 
  a stain on the pavement;
  that there is no
  protection
  from the oppressive rays 
  of heat and light
  in the middle of a parking lot;
  that slugs
  ought to stay 
  away from 
  dry, rocky deserts
  and reside forever in the dirt.
  
  but
  even if he knew,
  i am not sure
  it would have changed his mind.
  
  
  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
  
  
  To make "Something Out of Nothing", I contend, is an impossible task - what an artist wills into existence can never be wholly segregated from him and his experience. Whether he sculpts it with his hands, or scribes it into paper, or paints it onto canvas, or merely entertains the prospect of it, he must also allow it to thieve a little piece of himself. Art is a translation of the incorporeal, from its genesis within to habitat without; it does not reflect the artist’s mind, but is the artist’s mind. There is no distinction between the two, but varying iterations of; his work is to his thought as praxis is to theory. He cannot help but produce something unoriginal if he relies on his own facilities to do it; his efforts will always yield something mediate, some tether between his soul and his body and the world he inhabits. Therefore, A Stain on the Pavement is in no way made “out of nothing.” It is the logical consequent of my own interaction with the conditions of my world and developments in my life.

  My time in college has made me feel like a slug: slowly, I move forward; my legs begrudge beneath my body (although I suppose slugs don’t have legs); I slither solemnly along in the same direction, hoping to stumble by happenstance upon something exciting. It is not that I am unhappy - I do not think of slugs as unhappy creatures - but rather that I am split. I half cast a backward glance at the people and places and comforts I leave behind, and half look ahead to the daunting future promises that stretch out before me. Do I abandon the past and embrace the future, or hang to what I have always known? Do I sacrifice contentedness for the chance of greater contentedness, at risk of losing more than I gain; or satisfy myself with what I already have, neglecting future opportunity altogether? Is it fair to entertain the former, or selfish? Is the chasm between these two, disparate paths irreparable? Do I delude myself thinking I have a say in the matter? Attending college is almost inherently a transformative experience - but to what extent do I embrace the change? Although writing poetry likely will not bear formidable answers to any of these questions, it certainly makes them appear more tangible and less defeating. A Stain on the Pavement suggests taking but one possible path of many, and encourages unabashed commitment to personal exploration in the face of impediment no matter the repercussions. Sometimes, investigating beyond what is comfortable, even if such travails end tragically, is preferable to remaining infant.