Kelly Sheehy

What happens when you take the street out of art? When instead of letting it blow in overnight on wheat paste winds and yellow spray paint, you commission it? Commodify create spectacle art but with immersion packing 1.5 million folks from the suburbs over the course of a four-day weekend to see it all light up in technicolor and sound in juxtaposition of Black against white. Who gets pushed from the pavement on kickoff parade routes? Lined ten people deep glowsticks and White Claws dance, dance dance for the pleasure, dance for the potential of a neighborhood where they still lock their car doors to drive thru north of Liberty Street or idling on red at night.

BLINK

and you'll miss Levon at the corner of 14th and Race selling the latest issue of Streetvibes and offering to walk your dog on the 32nd and 33rd of every month.

BLINK

and you'll miss John in his navy-blue puffer who doesn't stand still and hides his stories behind bright eyes and yellowed whiskers.

BLINK

and you'll miss your audience with Mr. Errol the real mayor of Over-the-Rhine (not OTR™) sitting on his stoop with his cane and his cap offering howyoudoins to passers-by.

BLINK

and you'll miss Wanda and her metal cart none the wiser that you can purchase her complete works of poetry in paperback on Amazon for $10.95.

BLINK

and you'll miss Ray, who I only met on Saturday, sitting on his trike. A photographic memory, remembers everything he's ever read, He got a 1600 on the SAT.

BLINK

and you'll miss Ms. Cynthia and her three grandbabies seeing them hand in hand as they cross 13th quizzed on intersection safety and looking both ways.

BLINK

and another block of Vine Street is construction gated tarps set like a table for a dinner they're not invited to. Between a beer garden and a park bench what makes one social and the other criminal? What do the works of Ralph Steadman, or Charlie Harper, or Saya Woolfalk mean to a parent deliberating whether to pay the electric or cut out lunch? Does art kaleidoscoped on a brick edifice in tangerine, ultraviolet, and electric blue make up for 47 families evicted their bedrooms tucked in silk-lined back pockets for profits to turn at just the right time? A so-called "shining future city" comes up 28k short in units of affordable housing cuz colonization didn't die with Columbus it just got a re-brand. Brown hands load favorite armchairs into uncle's pickups make way for whiteness on Peddle Wagons claiming this land is my land projection mapping candy-color luxury condos where community should be. You

BLINK

19,200 times per day. How many times do you see?

*BLINK is one of the largest light, art and projection mapping events in the nation. This free four-day event takes place in downtown Cincinnati and Northern Kentucky, spanning more than 30 city blocks. BLINK turns the region into an outdoor art museum with large-scale projection mapping installations, murals, and immersive art.

I run from your bark, your cedar, your bur— those roots—again to feel moss between my middle toes—dirt smells of leather—bitter cocoa and dead—I had forgotten the taste of honeysuckle—tiny green pad center stem—yellow sweet pollen dust—then you—through thickets— you—chase me on spindle of doe legs—heather fur and hoof crack—down to water's edge—running—and me—without quiver, without bow—sink into bog—black water bobbing—red with cranberries—fruit that swallows me beneath the crest—shielded from you—naked—berries kiss my body—in a way your lips never could—I run from your electricity—your spit—your noise—calling out to sun and cypress—barefoot in brackish water—where there is palm—I swear, I vow—I am not your river nymph—or siren sea—I am not your waning crescent—naked body caked in mud—petals, no longer for your touch—come wolf, come bear, come dog, and boar— teeth that sink—in severance of you—done means done—means go—my no—branded to your chest—the smell of burning flesh—I’ll run—until I’m tattered—until I am hollow or hallowed or filled—because just like the moon—cast in a velveteen sky—I rise.

Upon arriving in New York, pick up a stick. Run it along the architecture and listen to the music of the city. —Unknown

If I lined up all the bottles and cans in New York City would they stretch to Chicago? Right to your front doorstep—on the brick beneath your mailbox—all green glass and aluminum we could call Poetry—made of tinks and clanks but nothing rusted. It’s dirtier here—greasestained paper plates up and down 28th Street—flattened against stained concrete at the iron mouths of subway stations. Unspoken dos and don’ts regarding eye contact have always made me uncomfortable—but not this sense of enclosure.

I can’t touch this energy—this history—or the glistening ducks that hang in steamed Chinatown windows—but I am looking for a sign—Helvetica—there’s something about it that swells me—the red parts of the Bible Jesus speaks with occasional laryngitis. In paperback book stores and hidden galleries something about Marilyn Monroe's face made up of tiny shrunken Mona Lisas makes drywall seem significant—exposed rafters tell of a ceiling that sings. This is where I found Story—realized I am nothing—but could be everything—and walk in an effort to blend—unraveling my sweater along the gutter to trace my way back home.

I have discovered I am not the Hudson—or the train surfers or the dog walkers—the siren that echoes down a narrow street—black garbage bags by the curbside—alleyways and fire escapes—because I have never known so many stairs or types of—chiseled stone. I want to be a skyscraper comprised of mirrors and modern angles. I want to be James Baldwin’s thumbprint in 1966 or the bucket of sunflowers outside the bodega—the watermelon I contemplated stealing but can’t be bothered to carry the blocks.

I want to be the ballet dancers frozen in the tree boughs of Central Park on the mall— these gold leaves are nothing but metallic and worth the price one pays—I found beauty in decay—on elevated walks—train tracks that meander with newly sprouted trees. There is unity in the muchness—part of the whole on a cellular level in unexpected vegetation. I lit a candle in a crumbling cathedral for your grandmother—sat on a bench—and wondered about the smell of designer storefronts.

I learned to taste the word Greenwich—but Washington Heights brought more that I can feel—a reality where graffiti isn’t capital "A" art just paint and that means something too— where the removal of scaffolding makes me feel naked or like I forgot my purse—I learned in a city it’s said thrives on idea makers and doesn’t take care of them—MISSING YOU: takes up my entire chest.

Kelly Sheehy is a Cincinnati-based writer, advocate, prose poet, and lucid dreamer with a BA in English from the Ohio State University and an MFA in Creative Writing from the School of the Art Institue of Chicago.