Stephen Mead

A resident of NY, Stephen Mead is a published artist, writer, maker of short collage-films and poetry/music mp3s.  Much can be learned of his multi-media work by placing his name in any search engine.  His latest project-in-progress, a collaborative effort with composer Kevin MacLeod, is entitled “Whispers of Arias”, a two volume download of narrative poems sung to music,

His latest Amazon release, “31 Kisses”, a poetry-art hybrid, is a celebration of romance for lovers everywhere regardless of sexual orientation.

Surrendering To the Empath

The coarse taste of blacktop

is not responsible

for that brutality——

a shove and an attempt at

defacement for flesh

pure as any other.

What voices accompany the

suddenly grounded——

voices, a hive clotting,

these hooks in the winded

which eddy and snag…?

Has the soul been harpooned?

This hiss no longer stings,

only fans a phantom hunger

whose aching gut is

real nevertheless, correspondent,

unintentionally, to wounds, universal.

What do you do with your eyes, fallen

angel, human, hurt, but still somehow

sardonic? These lenses, despite abuse,

look up clear, as if accepting the age-

old penalty of being born wrong, or so

they say, in a world less perfect and

right than the righteous claim.

At their sight I haven’t the tolerance

or belief quite.

Yet still you beseech me, the bloodied

bruises drying, and I give in,

on my face, some virtue of patience,

only because of your own.


Baby, was it experience

or just running to lose myself

in the next car, the next town?

How I needed that shape

so as not to look homewards

or too deep ’cause it

was only a ride & I

liked to meet strangers

whose dreams might overlap.

Pulling up again, danger has a freedom, or so

I used to hope, surprised to find it was


with a trucker, Jim Beam in the back or,

maybe connecting with some Mom, country ‘n

western & a couple of antsy kids tiring

themselves to pieces.

Yea, safer than you’d think in this

rodeo of dashboards & pit stops to

fill up before the highway fired its

start again.

Ready, on your mark, thumb out, test breeze.

Diesels’ from the east, jasmine blowing over

& my life, in that open, close as sleep


Now I wake up somewhere on the road

knowing home’s like a missed flight & it

might be better anyhow to stick with a

stray’s instinct, you know, putting

putting down roots in whomever I am right

at this moment tomorrow night, yesterday.


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