What a strange mental
space it is when the
people I most want to
dialogue with,
have something to offer
them, needing to
connect ideas with them
to further the Great Cause,
but what I receive from
them is nothing, nothing
at all,
no handshake in partnership,
no smile of acceptance.
My work discounted as
if their eyes were closed
to me,
as if I was a bag lady
begging for food on a
cold city street,
a Third World African
mother with AIDS
who has no money to buy
the drug I need.
Blazing for association
sizzles inside me.
But no heed is taken of
my emails,
my artwork overlooked,
my poetry goes unnoticed.
Perhaps I am an artistic
leaper, an untouchable
essayist,
A nobody, worthless, ne’er
do well who should do
these folks a favor by
putting a plastic bag
over my head.
I’m
trying to imagine what
acceptance would feel
like.
My heart warmed by recognition
for the work I love to
do.
A community that sees
me as a working artist
working
for the common good, my
scholarship noted in journals,
my poetry used at peace
rallies.
I’m perceived as
a person of worth.
Self-esteem arises from
being loved for the
spiritual gifts I bring
to the intellectual world.
I’m able to be a
teacher of Lovolution.
I’m known for paintings
embossed in my brain.
I’m someone respected
for being a conversationalist
on how a good order can
become our social reality.
Doctress Neutopia is publicly
seen.
I’m waiting for
this dream to awaken to
a world linked with me.
I must make a conceptual
leap to see my work as
an evolutionary success.
Artists now are woven
into the leadership of
culture living on a social
safety net.