Everything I make destroys me
on the look back. I erase myself
like the dot of an i. I forget how it felt
to shiver in the rewrite, to blink
and find the sun is set. I'm sitting in the dark.
//
In Denver, there stands a horse. He's taller
than the planes he beckons. He was drafted
in a barn, first, then cast into the world. His maker
must have shivered in the hay. He must have known
the head would fall, that he would bleed.
//
My words aren't tall, but they weigh heavy. They feel
sharp. I linger on them far too long and pretend
I'm someone else. Are they worth it? Do they still
land? If the sculptor, limping past the city's deadline,
had just left the horse unfinished, maybe he could tell me.
___________________
Truth is stranger than fiction. The story of Blue Mustang's creation is nearly as odd as the sculpture itself, and is well worth reading about in detail here.
Long story short: Luis Jiménez was commissioned to develop a monument for Denver International Airport. He modeled a 32' tall horse after his own Appaloosa, Blackjack, purchased once he felt he'd succeeded as an artist. In the process of making Blue Mustang, now affectionately named "Blucifer" by locals, he suffered health problems that delayed the project's completion. He was sued by the city, he countersued, and mediation determined he must finish the sculpture.
A large piece fell and severed an artery in Jiménez's leg. He bled to death on his studio floor.
About the Creator
Six Feet Under
Buried alive. What a horrible way to go. Yazz lay there, in her own thoughts. What else could she do? She was hungry, thirsty, tired, mentally, and physically exhausted, and more than anything, she was bored. She hoped she would die of boredom before anything else, anything else would've been more painful. Like many people had, she and her friends had talked about what they reckon the worst ways to die were, it was a morbid subject, but it came up every now and again. Yazz had always been one to argue her point on drowning, others had mentioned burning alive, slowly and painfully bleeding to death, hung drawn and quartered, and being starved to death. It was strange that none of them had considered being buried alive, it had never come up. But now, she was thinking back to those conversations her and her friends had had, how could they have not thought about it? It took a lot longer than the others, you were completely confined, you couldn't move or do anything, you just had to wait, until your body was physically unable to support a life system anymore, which could take up to four days. Four! By far the longest out of all of them. She recounted some of these conversations just to try and pass the time, anything to pass the time. It was difficult to know how much time had passed since she had been underground, it was difficult to know anything. There were many things that Yazz didn't know, she didn't know where she was, she didn't know how she'd got into the coffin, she'd just woken up there. Yazz also didn't know what time it was, or even what day it was, she guessed at Tuesday, it was Sunday evening when she'd been buried alive, intentionally, and although it had felt like weeks had passed, she was still alive, which means she hadn't died from dehydration, and therefore it couldn't have been more than four days.
By Liam Storm3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (7)
A powerful poem based on a shocking story! A sculptor slain by his sculpture?!? Extraordinary!
Fascinating history interwoven in a very relevant poem! This is excellent!
Wow this was really heavy and the true story after. Beautiful Suze
A mile high plus thirty-two feet. Which piece & does it retain the pound of flesh it exacted?
I forget how it felt to shiver in the rewrite, to blink and find the sun is set. I'm sitting in the dark. I love your writing, Suze, but I confess that the question undergirding this story is daunting, perhaps even terrifying. How much of oneself is required for the artist to sacrifice to her/his art! I wondered this earlier today as I read a separate writer's story and now you have raised the question again. Twice in the same day! And God help me, I can't help but wonder if every minute, every hour, all the weeks and months and years that I have labored over my own stories is worth all the sweat and the tears. And I have no answer except that I don't see me stopping. Ever.
What a story! And what a question too. Very good.
Oh, me likey this...so much depth...and thank you for drawing my/our attention to the piece of art! Love this Suze!