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Recorded Reading (4:06): https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/0ansg5pyjd73g2ynlnnzz/Creative-Interface.mp3?rlkey=xo7b36cuowpaaxn3dglhvrlvt&dl=0

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Creative Interface

Reviewing our creative history
We all too often “histrionics” see

Leads me to wonder, retroactively,
If ’twere a matter of compatibility
Rather than the unreas’nability
Upon which our historians agree —

I think that those historians ne’er be
Mislabeled in the ambiguity
Dished out by our “polite” society
In absence of obvious solvency

When viewing, ever uncreatively
(As must such, certain, necessarily,
Who never do themselves creative be
E’er striving with their party’s lines agree
Ensuring gain pecuniarily),
A dedicated creativity

Sensitive souls sojourning ‘mongst the numb —
Perhaps they were but stricken, firstly, dumb
And, after, righteously outraged become
Receiving undeserved baloney from
Aquaintances felt it to be routine
To trade cheap-cut baloney thus between
Two people whom till then had ever been
As brothers by all acquaintance seen

(Too many spirits wand’ring here below
In the graven misconception go
That never lasting harmony may grow
Without also decaying lunch meat know)

Perhaps they said, as I’ve been known to do:
“My friends, really could not care less what you
Feel, as a person, you must put me through
For I can always walk away from you —
My work, however, is a different story
It comes from heaven destined straight for glory
And whether that truth makes you glad or sorry,
You will treat of that work respectfully”

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps again, indeed,
That gen’ius found it had some special need
Its fires of creativity to feed
Protect and nurture evanescent seed
Blossomed priorly impossible
With wisdom’s and with beauty’s gifts brimfull
As may not hope to learn in any school
Sprang from that independent holy fool

Aquaintaces frowned about this request
For such supply with which to do his best
Repeating endlessly their verbal test
Insinuating that he be a pest
And selfish, petty, unconsidered, vain
Thus adding to, not relieving, his pain
They tried, yet, endlessly, again, explain
Its utter “lack of true artistic gain”

Who never had an artwork of their own,
Nor its demands creative ever known
Peering down from each complacent throne
Required them not their finer senses hone
(Tho’ understood a man who lifts much weight
To such a body’s needs they could relate:
Must feed such a one enormously great
Platters of vict’uals, early long and late!)

But let a mind produces perfect rhyme
Or artworks will outlast century’s time
Or music brings the soul to heights sublime
Or thought perceived quite well before its time —
Then even if that mind can let them know
What stimulus makes masterpieces grow,
Protections necessary for the flow,
They yet in doubt and “inconvenience” go

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps again
These special arts were bought with so much pain
Could not in vapid sprightly talk remain —
Withdrawing, equanimity regain

Perhaps some of those “Prima Donnas” would
Be found to have intentions naught but good
If people in their circle only would
Preferred have that they be well understood

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Homeless until removal of the stalker/targeter/vandal/arsonist following her allows her to approach any landlord ~ even for a private parking space ~ this poet presently lives under perpetual threat of towing with all possessions should her 23-year-old van stop running for any reason.

She is badly in need of a modest reserve with which to field any emergency which might occur.

Donors may visit http://www.UgiftABLE.com , using code #72D-31S. It does take several days for the poet to be notified of your patronage.

Thank you for supporting quality in the fine arts.

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