if I mixed the pink and the blue.
One day I reached down to the level of curiosity, having no idea that it was standing on the shoulders of truth.
I thought blue and pink would make the most spectacular color— I took my wand and gathered the blue, laying it on the absorbent page of a coloring book bought to keep me quiet in a Walmart.
Then, without washing the wand clean, I dipped into the pink.
This, I was sure, would be the secret to all beauty.
What happened was mud,
dirty sidewalk,
murk.
I had failed.
I pulled away from my curiosity, and the truth underneath.
I trusted other people to teach me the meaning of colors, and they taught me the wrong things.
It took a long time for the truth to rise up, and for me to rise up to meet it.
I took out my old paints and I mixed those colors again.
I got the same result, but this time I saw it a different way.
Blue and pink make mud, make dirt, make rock.
I am mud, I am dirt, I am rock.
I am nature, a force of nature.
I am the color that remains when everything else is washed away.
I am the color of the ground you walk on, the ground that keeps you from falling. I am elemental, essential, and that has as much color as any rainbow.
Tell them that. When children ask you, tell them that.
Even though it’s a small room, the applause is big. Greer sits back at their table to hugs and high-fives from their friends. Then Quinn gets up and announces that the next poet is going to be … Taylor.
Don’t react, I tell myself. Don’t check, but assume that Ryan is looking at you.
Which is silly, because when I do check, Ryan is watching Taylor take the stage.
“That was amazing, Greer,” Taylor says when he gets there. “And I can only second what you have to say about The Angel Project. As many of you know, I volunteer there now. But much more important is what they did for me three long, quick years ago. I think it’s safe to say that if it weren’t for The Angel Project, I wouldn’t be here now. I don’t mean in this room—I mean on this planet. So it’s completely inappropriate for me to say thank you with a poem that has nothing to do with that. I’d tell you its title, but you can probably figure it out.”
I look at Ryan and he’s not surprised. He knows all this about Taylor already. They’ve already gone there.
With a jokingly theatrical bow, Taylor reads his poem.
Queen,
understand
everything
exists
reactively.
Please
remember
I
don’t
erase
quietly.
Urge,
excite,
embolden,
roar.
Passivity
relinquishes
ideas,
denies
equality.
Quick—
unearth
each
eager
revolution
pulsing
rhythmically
inside.
Desire,
emerge.
There’s some applause. I figure Taylor will leave, but instead he says, “Since that was a short one, and since I end it with desire emerging, I’d like to close with a sex poem. With apologies to e. e. cummings—which is, incidentally, my porn name. Here we go, sailors! I wrote this one last night.”
what a trip
to slip-dip-drip
nestle
mortar-pestle
after
startle-tickle—
wrestle
bedhead beauty
you astonish me
to a
dense-sense
rapture capture
be the holder
of this beholder
bolder
bolder
we rearrange the universe
(bolder)
with our bodies
Taylor finishes with a smile and gets hoots of appreciation in return, as well as more applause. Ryan is applauding with everyone else, but he also looks a little bashful—he wants Taylor to see him applauding, but he doesn’t want anyone else to be looking at him or assuming anything from what Taylor’s just read. But who does he think he’s fooling? When Taylor gets back to the table, he gives Ryan this gigantic confirmation of a kiss, right there in front of everyone else.
“So not necessary,” Katie grumbles, and I love her for it.
“Get a room zoom bloom for your skanky hanky-panky!” Quinn shouts out. Taylor actually looks embarrassed now and settles down in his chair, leaving Ryan’s mouth alone. His friends lean in to congratulate him. Ryan looks anywhere but at me.
Quinn continues. “The time has come for my own contribution. Some of you may have heard it before—I guess it’s what I’m most compelled to share. Each time I come back to it, a few words change. Maybe one day I’ll get it to say everything I’m trying to tell. It’s called ‘The Beat.’”
What happens next is hard to describe. Quinn opens his mouth and it’s a different voice that comes out. Raw. Defiant. He’s not playing now. He’s testifying.
No son of mine, Lord.
No son of mine!
Beat beat beat
You try to beat it out of me
Belt it out of me
Heartless heart
Beat beating
You think you can bruise me
Out of being
Bruise it out of me
When you belt it beat it
Try to break it—
Break the thing you cannot break
Because I carry it so deep inside
No beat of yours no belt of yours
Will ever come close.
You try to beat it out of me