"Matthew 7:3"

It never ceases to amaze me how fast
those around me are to point out the voids.



I remember drawing a picture when I was six
and in typical six-year-old fashion
the sky
my
sky
was represented by a two-inch-thick
band of blue streaming across the top of the page.
A good four inches of solid white paper
lay between it and the top of the tallest tree
(aside from the obligatory m-shaped bird
drifting aimlessly and unsymmetrically
somewhere in that expanse of white).

I handed my daily masterpiece to my mom
and she suggested that I give it to her friend as a gift.
Upon receiving my innocent pastoral and taking
a minute to analyze
his first words were these:
"Why don't you extend the sky all the way down?
The blue sky should touch the green grass."
Instantly and without remorse
I ripped the paper from his hand
stubbornly declaring that it was
my
drawing
and I could make
my
sky
any which way I damn well pleased.
My mother was standing nearby and overheard
my lack of receptiveness
to this uncalled for constructive criticism.
She made me apologize to her friend
for being so defensive of my art
and suggested that I go sit down
and drag my sky to where it belonged
supposedly.

I apologized to her friend
with fingers crossed behind my back, of course
but refused to edit my picture.
I ripped it up over the trash can
as her face flushed crimson with shame
and I quickly explained that I intended to start over.
I didn't.
That would've been selling out.
I'd rather throw my work away
than have to change it for some fraud
who believed that the blue sky ever touches the green grass.
The very thought of having to succumb to that
put me in such a dither.
I didn't mind the fake apology as much as I resented
being asked to change my creation for someone else's sake
by my own flesh and blood.
That episode is my first memory of
hating a loved-one
for a few precious
well-deserved
moments.



Last week I was reminded of that ancient incident
as I discussed tattoos with an acquaintance.
Most of my left arm is already covered in ink
and all but the back of my right forearm is done.
This genius had the nerve to tell me
to fill that space with something else soon
to complete the effect
even though his body is void of tattooing
or any other permanent commitments
for that matter.
I didn't tell him about the Biblical parable
of the man with the speck of sawdust in his eye
being called out by the man with the plank in his.
I didn't tell him that I'm waiting for something
meaningful to happen again that warrants
a new permanent image adorning my skin.
I didn't tell him that I'm laid-off right now
and tattoos aren't exactly free.
And I sure didn't have my fingers crossed
behind my back this time
when I told him how and where to get off.



Believe me when I tell you that
vengeance tastes better
aged seventeen years.









Currently reading:

"Sifting Through The Madness For The Word, The Line, The Way" by Charles Bukowski.