Stan

A friend said that he woke up to September with the memory of dinosaurs roaming in the mall the day before in his mind. I took it as a quip and chortled like a Triceratop giving shoppers—uhuh, young and old—free rides, an amazing photo backdrop, and, obviously, the time of their lives.

But when I got to think of what the advent of September has me remembering, I ceased being the merry touchy-feely giant. For it was in the previous September that I got keenly acquainted with Stan Rice, poet, painter, and husband to (in)famous novelist Anne Rice. That time, I was lent a copy of the latter’s The Witching Hour, at the beginning of which was a poem by Stan, the first one of his I have ever read. It whispered:

To which I breathed back, ethereally, as if in a trance, unwithholdingly:

I knew I was tumbling into an entire field of knowing. Verdant and burning. The mind crisp as kindling. A change growing from deep within, embroidering the heart, shooting wildly through the pores, bursting bravely, carefreely. I have my way. This is my way. With words, and images, and vibrant somethings seeking kindred somethings. Nevermore will I bed with Fear, or Shame, or Despair when I name myself poet… creator… human… god… Me.

Thanks Stan =)

*Bloody artwork by bloody me.