2 minute read
Chiaroscuro Atlas
By Sean Faletti
TW: mention of death
I’ve no Time to be an Artist when weight presses hard upon my shoulders, heavy like my feet on dark grapes that seep blood wine — I sip shadows, stepping upon spiders that slide on the gold waterspout-sunrise that I would paint if I had the Time to be an Artist. Time is a god, and I live before light. Time is Money. I carry it, creep barefoot for liquor, smokes, guns, or any weapon that could kill the few hours I have. When dead, I snatch my shiny spade up and bury until a void rises like black holes in tense skies that I’d have all of the Time in the world to imagine if I had Money to be an Artist. I’m no Artist, black-hole soul. My brown skin speaks of dirt and mother. My silence sings of dirt and father — with rich soil, I’d have the Time to call home on the weekends, to fill my void with love, my heart with thick syrup straight from a warm, milky tree — if only I had the Time to shrug this weight off of my weak shoulders, broad by design and not by effort, nor ambition — Time to be an Artist, not think of all the people to talk to and hands to shake and warm bread to bake and break. I break my back, but not to be an Artist.
