Showing posts with label Jeremy Szuder. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jeremy Szuder. Show all posts

Tuesday, September 13, 2022

GAS Featured Artist and Poet: Jeremy Szuder



Jeremy Szuder (he/him) lives in a tiny apartment with his wife, two children and two cats. He works in the evenings in a very busy restaurant, standing behind a stove, a grill, fryers and heating lamps, happily listening to hours of hand selected music and conjuring ideas for new art and poetry in his head. When his working day ends and he enters his home in the wee hours, he likes to sit down with a glass of wine and record all the various words and images that bear fruit within his mind. Jeremy Szuder only sets the cage doors free when the work begins to pile up too high. In this life, Szuder makes no illusions of being a professional artist in any way, shape, or form.

https://jeremyszuder.wordpress.com/







Son Of A Chance



Born from the body of a teenage girl,          

backbone still hardening.


Born swimming quickly

against the riptide of addictive tensions,

through oceans of alcohol,

and punctured veils smoked grey,


through sugar hurricanes spinning inside her

and not much water to speak of.


Instructions for mothering upon birth, yes, 

that would have been great.

Left instead with a whole lot of questions.


But the answer seemed to be that of;

“let him live”,

even if it came with the care tag 

of being passed along to a more

able bodied family, 

      

which was ruled out 

once teenage momma saw

determination and majesty in baby eyes.


Born sleeping wherever rain could not lick us,

sometimes sleeping under the steering wheel

of a Volkswagen, 

sometimes crashing at Grandpas home,

or the house of whoever had 

the good drugs that day.


Born biding time and PUSHING teeth 

through gum to bite the nipple of depression, 

        

no, scratch that, I mean, desperation.


Born wondering why the prophets of our times

would have wanted to do a gig like this 

more than once.


Born spinning clocks and tearing calendars,

waiting for the orchestra pit of my mother's 

body as instrument,

to finish tuning up or down

so as to allow this son of a chance to conduct

the symphony of archaic existence.


Says mother-“Listen to the sounds of my song 

play in the background of everything

you do, everyday of your life……………”


Like you,

dear reader,

I too will be

hammering out 

my visions,

my escaped artistry,

my life plans etched into

my mothers bones,


from out of that

battlefield I called 


the womb.