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1.
we've been trying to reach you. stop.
you've left us on read. sent us to voicemail. stop.
have you been afraid to look at yourself? have you been sealed shut? stop.
stop. look. stop. look. stop. look.
inside is not so dark when you shine a light. stop.
when you free yourself. come out of your closet. of your vault. stop.
let yourself be raw and seething- stop.
not just skinny and pretty and so clean- stop.
let yourself be fractured and messy- unkempt. unswept. stop.
you aren't this fragile thing mama raised you to be anymore. stop.
unlock your closet door + open the window. stop.
crumble on the floor. cry in public. but whatever you do-
please, come out and be seen. stop.
2.
This time 4 years ago, I took everything out of my closet + lined the floor with pillows and blankets. I needed somewhere to hide- where I wouldn't be judged. Where no one could touch me. Or need me. I wanted to go unseen. But I AM SO BIG. I rarely go unnoticed. Unbothered.
I lived in a place called LOUDER HOUSE + for once, I just wanted to be quiet. Being this LOUD in this queer survivor body is a responsibility. I can't escape my flamboyance. This vulnerability. My own aching presence.
4 years later, we come back to the closet. The vault. But this time, the door is open. And you get to see inside what wanted to hide. She turned on every light. Came out in brilliant colors. Came out an honest mess. A melted ballerina in a jewelry box still dancing.
3.
After it happened, you couldn't look anyone in the eye. Stop.
You were afraid they'd see the violence he forced into your body. Stop.
See his violence when they looked at you. Stop.
That they'd somehow mistake it for you. Stop.
You sure as hell did. Stop.
Made yourself into this monster that you're not. Stop.
But last night, she looked you in the eyes. Stop.
Said your eyes looked like foaming glasses of cream soda. Stop.
And she looked you in the eyes and she didn't see the violence. Stop.
Maybe the ache. But not his violence. Not anymore. Stop.
Not what left you feeling tainted and sour. Bitter and small. A shell. Stop.
They say it takes 7 years to get any trace of him off your body. Stop.
Last week, marked 7 years since it happened. Stop.
And she sees cream soda in your eyes. Stop.
And you're no longer crawling inside that dark closet. Stop.
No longer a shell of yourself. NO LONGER HIDING. Stop.
You burst forth in every neon color. Every neon mistake. Stop.
In the brave choice to be that which could have stayed broken but didn’t. Stop.
You put your fractured self back together. Stop.
You're not the same, but you’re pieced back together. Stop.
You open the door to be seen. Stop.
You open the door to melt out of your cage. Stop.
Melt out of that closet you used to lock yourself in. Stop.
You are cream soda at your favorite diner in the city in fall. Stop.
And you say, you say- hold me like lilacs hold their shape and bruises fade away. Stop.
And you say, you say- hold me like lilacs hold their shape and bruises fade away. Stop.
Be your own kind of violence. Stop.
You get to scream out your truth. Stop.
Pick a new president and the next one after that. Stop.
Be your own definition of all consuming. Stop.
7 years later- it's no longer about him or what he did. Stop.
Stop. Look. Stop. Look. Stop. Look.
Burst open because love, it’s finally now about YOU.
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2. |
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dawn mist has no color
just vapor rising
from the surface
may be tile
maybe the flat
polish of the mirror
river look in
but not reflected
time lingers long
when no one
strokes your hair
and you have
lain with dew drop
eyelids that stung
so raw you have been
stripped down
torn into ribbons
mummified silence
rolled up with the
linens and canvas
leaned into the wall
but not forgotten
waiting for the hand
to catch you up.
to lay you out
formed along the
the straight wood
frame tree was once
not linear veins root to branches
arteries carry fear of night
paths in dark fairytales
when we don’t know
what comes for us from
the cobwebs
we can’t see tears
drip across the sheets
as they wet they
release deeper into
the cloth become
a stain a shade
or a shadow a
shared memory a
faint cry into your pillow
stifled and now
masked so
even our words
are misheard
and we all
look lost with
weary eyes
and half faces
trying to wake
from this dream
- Jen May
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3. |
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until full daybreak
dribbles of light
pool in arcs
looks like mutation
looks muted
frames squared up
we are housed
walls loom
feels stale
think of styrofoam
and drywall
think of lungs
think of the faces
you are not seeing today
the small togetherness
of only who lives in your house
spring swirls outside
storms threaten
animals dare to go
into the streets
but most of us
cling because
tracing our steps
seems
unreal
– Jen May
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4. |
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unveils all hues
within
our human vaults
the light comes
and goes
silently
like rising
and setting
energy
concentrated
translates
in the interior of mind
like a time capsule
sealed
with breath
messages from other spaces
moods
spelled in hieroglyphics
the closing
becomes opening
like a whisper
from
the glamor
of heaven
once
upon
a
time
–Jen May
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5. |
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6. |
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7. |
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As It Happens
my art reveals itself to me
As It Happens
The name of this installation in the vault is "synapses" –
electrical charges/connections in the brain.
Changing colors contribute to these perceived
electrical connections.
Are these electrical charges firing or misfiring…
So if you walked into this vault,
would you be walking into a brain?
As It Happens
Paul had been battling cancer for over 5 years and
Last year I was working on a painting while he was
undergoing brain surgery.
As It Happens
At some point that painting became Paul’s brain.
This brings me to this installation “synapse”.
I had no intention to manifest Paul’s brain again,
but he died and his synapses are perhaps now more
connected to …
As it Happens …
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8. |
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1.
we've been trying to reach you. stop.
you've left us on read. sent us to voicemail. stop.
have you been afraid to look at yourself?
have you been sealed shut? stop.
stop. look. stop. look. stop. look.
inside is not so dark when you shine a light. stop.
when you free yourself. come out of your closet. of your vault. stop.
let yourself be raw and seething- stop.
not just skinny and pretty and so clean- stop.
let yourself be fractured and messy- unkempt. unswept. stop.
you aren't this fragile thing mama raised you to be anymore. stop.
unlock your closet door + open the window. stop.
crumble on the floor. cry in public. but whatever you do-
please, come out and be seen. stop.
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9. |
|
|
|
|
2.
This time 4 years ago, I took everything out of my closet + lined the floor with pillows and blankets. I needed somewhere to hide- where I wouldn't be judged. Where no one could touch me. Or need me. I wanted to go unseen. But I AM SO BIG. I rarely go unnoticed. Unbothered.
I lived in a place called LOUDER HOUSE + for once, I just wanted to be quiet. Being this LOUD in this queer survivor body is a responsibility. I can't escape my flamboyance. This vulnerability. My own aching presence.
4 years later, we come back to the closet. The vault. But this time, the door is open. And you get to see inside what wanted to hide. She turned on every light. Came out in brilliant colors. Came out an honest mess. A melted ballerina in a jewelry box still dancing.
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10. |
|
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3.
After it happened, you couldn't look anyone in the eye. Stop.
You were afraid they'd see the violence he forced into your body. Stop.
See his violence when they looked at you. Stop.
That they'd somehow mistake it for you. Stop.
You sure as hell did. Stop.
Made yourself into this monster that you're not. Stop.
But last night, she looked you in the eyes. Stop.
Said your eyes looked like foaming glasses of cream soda. Stop.
And she looked you in the eyes and she didn't see the violence. Stop.
Maybe the ache. But not his violence. Not anymore. Stop.
Not what left you feeling tainted and sour. Bitter and small. A shell. Stop.
They say it takes 7 years to get any trace of him off your body. Stop.
Last week, marked 7 years since it happened. Stop.
And she sees cream soda in your eyes. Stop.
And you're no longer crawling inside that dark closet. Stop.
No longer a shell of yourself. NO LONGER HIDING. Stop.
You burst forth in every neon color. Every neon mistake. Stop.
In the brave choice to be that which could have stayed broken but didn’t. Stop.
You put your fractured self back together. Stop.
You're not the same, but you’re pieced back together. Stop.
You open the door to be seen. Stop.
You open the door to melt out of your cage. Stop.
Melt out of that closet you used to lock yourself in. Stop.
You are cream soda at your favorite diner in the city in fall. Stop.
And you say, you say- hold me like lilacs hold their shape and bruises fade away. Stop.
And you say, you say- hold me like lilacs hold their shape and bruises fade away. Stop.
Be your own kind of violence. Stop.
You get to scream out your truth. Stop.
Pick a new president and the next one after that. Stop.
Be your own definition of all consuming. Stop.
7 years later- it's no longer about him or what he did. Stop.
Stop. Look. Stop. Look. Stop. Look.
Burst open because love, it’s finally now about YOU.
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This is a spoken word + visual art collaboration between poets Annie Hex + Jen May + visual artist Bert Leveille.
The album above is all spoken word pieces inspired by Bert Leveille's sculpture "Synapse." The poems became part of the collaborative installation.
This project is a part of "As It Happens" which is a wild one-of-a-kind collaborative art and poetry installation presented by Atrocious Poets. Poets respond to visual artists’ work AS IT HAPPENS + this is what came through us for our part of the installation.
Check out more about our collaborative poetry project here:
www.bertleveille.com/withHexandMay.html
Check out the installation masked and in person at the old court house art center in woodstock, IL through december:
www.facebook.com/events/354076035871114
released November 5, 2020
poetry by annie hex and jen may
art by bert leveille
