Scot Lee Williams
Scot Lee Williams is a multi-disciplinary artist. As a musician, he is a classically trained saxophone player, a singer/songwriter, and a composer, playing multiple instruments and styles of music. He has performed as an actor in musicals and plays, as well as having substantial experience in performance
art and installation art. As a writer, Scot has published poetry and short stories in university and student journals in the Southwest (University of New Mexico, University of Arizona). He has competed in poetry slams, collaborated in performances exploring faith and religion, has sung lead in numerous rock bands, and is a collaborator with synonymUS. His primary interest is in art as an ecstatic, sacred and connective bridge between people.
scotleewilliams at earthlink dot net
The Twelve Apostles Carved Above the Entrance to Trinity Church, 9/11/04
The sculptor knew the look of those who must wait.
One is reading,
beloved disciple, boyish, clean shaven
He is absorbed in his book
and does not notice the passing time.
Another stares off into space, pursed lips
chewing at his thoughts
as he might chew on the ends of his beard,
frustrated with the endless recitation of hours.
This one sits perched on the edge of his chair,
legs crossed, prim.
He can wait all day, if he has to.
That one reclines, halo tilted
arm thrown over the back of the chair,
no where to go anyway,
might as well sit.
All of them forever enshrined at some
stone facsimile of
a heavenly bus stop.
And carved above them,
majestic, arms wide in embrace,
His feet rest lightly
on the firm foundation
of their cloistered stone chairs,
and they seem unaware
that the one they walked with,
argued over, misunderstood,
loved and abandoned to the slavering mob,
that he stands right above them.
He seems to be hesitating
on the expectation of some cue
dropped from a cosmic prompter,
waiting in the wings for the ultimate
Deus ex machina
to ring down the final curtain.
The streets of New York are covered in soot,
The day is grey and growing darker, colder.
A driver shouts out his window
to the air above the dazed tourists that crowd the crosswalk
"Thatís fuckiní bullshit, you know?"
The hole where some buildings used to stand
is clearly visible nearby, and surrounded
by klieg lights that shine
like surgical lamps over a shotgun wound.
Pigeons shit on graves that long ago should have yielded up
their moldering contents for brand new bodies
and shining clean souls.
Wars and rumors of wars,
the constant push and turn of history,
the schemes of those who would rather
burn the green and humble world
than live through the ambiguity of shattered
they do nothing to hasten
the delayed apocalypse.
The Apostles themselves grow black in the poisonous air,
shadows deepened, hollow cheekbones grown cavernous.
They hallucinate clean stone,
and a glorious light,
expectant beneath thickening grime until they almost forget
they are waiting
and they fall asleep,
eyes open and dreaming of the kingdom, redemption
an explanation, spoken softly
words of warm wisdom
to put the last two thousand years to right.
I, too, am waiting.
Towering piles of steel and concrete
abstracted glass and brushed aluminum
like figures from fascist propaganda posters
staring flint-eyed and resolute
into a future where no rough-hewn
Semitic bricks break the smooth surface
Tightly sealed spaceship office buildings
without windows to open,
the heat and stink of pressing bodies
with their customary cries of hunger and need
locked away far below,
never to offend
the cathedral hush and delicate nostril
of the corporate boardroom.
Think of planes smashing buildings
not as "terrorism,"
articles on the aesthetics of flame and chaos as construction materials
when all others have been denied or stolen,
dialectics of poverty and privilege
faith and fury
written in blood on the pages of bibles and qurans
scrawled across the sky in letters of smoke.
Perhaps we should wonder why
we have built them