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.


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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.