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, http://stephenmead.amazingtunes.com/
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
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
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.