For Christy Brown

Saint rogues are these, the spiritual cynics
in a Dublin pub, a bedroom for seven, feet
Next to heads, stolen covers, the sagging
Mattress, & all that weight.

Oh roll, roll brawling sisters. Brothers toss
Your angst, your laughter, your will
Through gossip streets, the narrow doors,
The eyes opening.

Not enough coal. Porridge again?
Da lost his temper, his job. Ma's stashing
Cash for a wheelchair, for Christy.

Let's drink another round.
I'm frenzy painting, holding the line,
A brush between toes, a world out of confines,
My body, this body of wrenched muscles,
Controlled spasms
Yet able to dream.

Desire is my face, my mouth & my mind,
The miracle & punishment, but I
Am no freak, no poet, quite, only
A man, like most, attempting some freedom.
A typewriter might help, a room, enough
Space to bring home, shape the landscape of flesh,
Of hands against this cramped backdrop-----

Buildings, buildings-----
Love, here is the life
Amid war shadows, factories, amid want
As painful bliss.
Love, here is the life living simply
& not so simply
(spin the bottle)
to be shared as a jig
(I've scotch in me pocket)
& a wheelchair of wings

^

Biography

Stephen Mead is an artist/writer living
in northeastern NY. Some art samples and an extensive resume can be found online at
www.123soho.com/member/mead.