I Write My Life on a Chalkboard
written & performed by: Joseph L.M. Sturm
@jlmsturm
I write my life on a chalkboard
and rub my hands over the words to make music.
Swish. Swish. Clap. Clap.
A cloud of music makes the room hazy.
I breathe in the dust and
layer my lungs with sediment.
I breathe in again turn them into stone then open
a window because I don’t want to be selfish.
I walk back to the chalkboard
and am glad to see that I can still
make out the words. I rewrite
the same words, and that’s easier.
I begin to rewrite my life on a chalkboard
and re-rub my hands over the words to make my world less black.
Swish. Swish. Clap. Clap.
Clouds of yellow sponge away the details in the room.
The chairs were black, but the tables are the same, and
I can write my name on every one. So I do.
And I write every other name I know on
the tables, because I don’t want to be selfish.
I walk back to the chalkboard
and am glad to see that I can still
make out the words. I rewrite
the same words, and that’s harder.
I begin to rewrite my life on a chalkboard,
but the paths of eros become lost
in the past when hands moved to pick up a fallen branch.
Swish. Swish. Crack. Crack.
Clouds of dry dust consumed me and
turned me yellow as I erased my naked footsteps.
I broke the branch in three and threw the pieces off the path
as I consumed the dust to be the same as my outer layer,
though I soon moved because I didn’t want to be selfish.
I remember the chalkboard and see the symbols lost in smudges.
The smudges remind me that the words are now different.
I am writing askew like the myriad paths of yellow dirt and cannot conform.
I cannot see; I cannot continue.
I look at the symbols I can barely make out on the chalkboard
and re-rub my hands over the words because my world is too vague.
Swish. Swish. Clap. Clap.
Clouds rise up to consume the room, and
I think my hands are the same color, more uniform,
and my mouth and tongue are coated and I can’t swallow.
And the clouds turn my lungs yellow, and I
cough up yellow and retch yellow and bleed yellow onto my uniform hands.
So, I stop breathing because I don’t want to be selfish.
I fall upon the floor and let the yellow haze become
my layered tomb, and I see naked footprints on the floor leading
to the other side of the room – leading to another black
chalkboard. I never used it, because
I didn’t want to be selfish.
- Almost Naive - April 30, 2024
- Interview Q&A With Joseph L.M. Sturm - March 19, 2024
- Corset — Undone - January 20, 2024
