Fall from Grace (Poem)

This is what I never hear about

in Eastern philosophy: each time

I reach a state of grace, it’s

followed by a fall. Maybe that’s

why artists are never saints:

they ride that state until there’s

nothing left and then plunge into

the existential sea, melted wings

flailing. Is this just me? Am

I the only one not doing it right?

Maybe it’s the desire to create

that topples us, that one thing

we won’t let go of, that urge

deep as bone. The Goddess smiles.

Does that signal approval or

am I just one of her private jokes?

 

Huffstickler (at Dolce Vita)

June 13, 2000