Chamber of Contradictions
It is a messy place.
Scaffolding and six colors of paint,
not always on the walls.
Debris on the floor.
Constantly in a state of repair
Not enough furniture,
or perhaps too much, depending on the day.
It is a messy place,
never big enough for my ideas, my mistakes,
for the baggage that I continually toss out the window.
Never big enough for the art I conceive,
or the people I love. A party space
that often seethes in the silence of cathedrals.
There are paintings on the walls.
Paint on the floor.
Some of the colors clash.
Often there is music, strange and unpredictable songs,
Nora Jones, Mick Jagger, and Irish monks dance together here.
Mostly, you dance with them, a bouncing old man
with a smile on my face,
content with my chamber of contradictions,
About this poem.
Anyone who paints any of us with a single, simple epithet as a descriptor is always wrong. We’re all far more complex than that. Life is messy. So am I.
The picture was taken at Mass MoCA – where I often love the space even more than the art.
A note to my grammar nazi’s (who I secretly love because I am arguably the world’s worst typist and speller), the comma at the end is on purpose. It’s actually my favorite part of this poem. Being a poet has its advantages – you get to mangle the English language and get away with it.