Artist Spotlight!

Shane Margeson

What forms of art/writing/theatre etc. do you use to express yourself?

To me, every moment is a possible piece of art, because every moment is a piece of art. I try and capture as many moments in writing as I can. Not by writing about them, but by writing in them. Wandering around this grand gallery we live in, I feel sonnets on the trails, tragic plays in the traffic, and operas in the conversations. If I were well versed in the non-lyrical arts, I'd express myself through the instrumental and visual more, but at the moment I'm sticking to the nouns and verbs where I find them.

When and how did you first become involved in these types of creative expression?

When I was 12, my family and I moved from Syracuse, NY to Charlotte, NC-a 700 mile separation from everything I knew. I had a terrible time rooting to new soil, and it showed. One day, a friend of mine brought me a CD that had always helped to cheer her up, and suggested I give it a try. That album, “I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning” by Conor Oberst, changed my life within the hour. The lyrics resounded profoundly in me. I studied the lines of every song-reading, rereading and reading again-letting each word fill the void of expression I had been wallowing in. After I had finished the entirety of it, I picked up a pen and pad and haven't put them down since. Also, my love of Hip Hop did a great deal to expand my creative foundation and outlets. Conor set up the canvas, Hip Hop brought the easel, and I've been drinking then vomiting paint onto the blank space.

Where do you find inspiration for your work?

As I said before, I can be inspired by anything. The very idea of our existence is inspiration for me, which sounds corny, but I really mean it. There is nothing more spiritual and inspiring than man, the only literate thing we know of in all of forever, explaining in the intricacies of his language the intricacies of his existence. Don't ya think? It's a superpower. If you were Superman, would you need inspiration to fly? No. You'd just wake up, see the open sky, and occupy it.

What is the most meaningful artwork, writing, song etc. that you have created and why?

Damn, tough question. It's hard to say for sure, but if I'm being unsure (which I am) then I suppose I'd say "The Treasure Hunter". It's a piece that I inspired myself to write, and that illustrates the mistakes that made me. Although, every time I perform that one, I think it hits me harder than it does the audience.

How often do you perform spoken word?

Well, unfortunately, school has been doing a damn good job at keeping me from doing what I want, and also, the open mic scene has gotten a bit disorganized recently. I'm hoping to build a stronger foundation for all Poetics by starting up The High Country Poets Society, which will organize exhibitions, open mics, etc. and will also publish local poets' works. Once that is set up, I hope to have at least two nights a week for various performances. However, like I said, school is the inhibitor. You'll see the flyers when I'm ready.

What is a fun fact that many people may not know about you?

I have about seven different pen names, some of which I wear openly, and some of which you'll never connect to me. I also write graffiti, which I am just as mysterious in. Altogether, I have about 10 different pseudonyms I create under.

Anything else you would like to add?

God is love, love is us, stay up, be safe, don't be safe, watch for the police and remember, you never stay too high nor too low for too long.





Hey, that picture looks familiar

That was our cabin in the Adirondacks

We were specks in the storm of pine trees

A pack on the edge of the endless

We fed pyres dead blocks of our memory

And let the stereo stay on repeat

I don’t remember the song’s name

But the rhythm remains in the soles of my feet

Now the past lives on in my pen ink

I try to translate the souls of those moments

But the picture shows me striking a dumb pose

And doesn’t convey the correct emotions

I guess no one will know it as I do

Only I can see through those lens-like eyes

I realize in the time lapse

The album’s where pieces of spirits die



See, with my photos wrapped in plastic

The sounds and smells aren’t all kept fresh

That wind moved like a mop

Soaking itself in the scents of the fields it swept

And my body turned to rock

I felt like gold the more the minutes passed


The Treasure Hunter


Insufflating the medication

my muscles relax like snapped rubber bands.

My hands move like tombstones,

clasping tightly

a tube,

the Treasure Hunter’s spy glass

too used to see through.

He’s alone, walking

a white line thin enough

to lose itself in the thickets,


a white line thick as

the yellow brick road that Dorothy rode

back to Kansas.

He’s just trying to find my way home.

But the path’s been eroded

by man-made pseudo-paradise

he’s pulled through my nose to my dome.



Where am I?



With a name, a palindrome.

I guess it’s easy to see,

why he always ends up where he started

rather than where I wanted to be.

But with an X at each end, I expected

a spade is all I would need

to clear the sand and lift

my chest with an overdue exhale,

snapping rubber bands with the pull of my own fingers.

With silence as my gravedigger,

he tries to walk the white line from X

to A-N-


with my intentions at their very best

since his last treasure hunt to


got me lost


Lost somewhere loss doesn’t seem like it costs me.

The loss is in the inhale,

the cost is in the motive,

but I could never see it because the Xanax

has plastered shut my eyelids.



Where the fuck am I?



I’m alone, so he walks

a white line thin enough

to lose itself in the thickets


he makes it as thick as

the yellow brick road that Dorothy rode

back to Kansas.

He’s just trying to find my way home.

Never realizing the X’s only serve as deception,

a false sense of correction, when all he really did was

reverse my direction,

my perception distorted by all these

fucking brainkillers he’s snorted.

Following false treasure maps

with expectations of home, finding

only the thrill of the chase,

hoping to gain salvation,

an escape,

from this palindromic path

He’s been obeying like a slave.


We’ve been obeying like a slave.


I’ve been obeying like a slave.

So afraid

of never finding a treasure that’s been in my hands

the whole time.

Blind to the true way back,

I’m just trying to find my way home.

In an endless, empty,

white line.



Prayer to Morning


I want to wake with a winged heart and give great song to the still-birth Dawn

                  to howl holy reverence into the calm and hope the wind carries my cries like a reveille

                      across Mother.


I want gun fire to sound like supper

crashing timber to sound like shelter

the strike of a match to signal the sunset

and the roll of thunder to ring like church bells.


I want a mane to rival the kings, archival locks

                  to trap in the thinking

I want my canvas punctured so the ink shines through

                  to stare at that sun the needle let loose

                  to foster the coup my spirit is planning

against the arrogance of man’s understanding


Or lack thereof.


I want to mean mug coffee cups that know me by name

I want Gucci Mane to read Malcolm X

I want to text with my tongue and talk with my eyes

I want to be the one who let the dogs out


I want to curve my mouth in reverse of the Earth

I want to burn through horizon

I want to call Heaven the present and Hell the stagnant

I want to live in Limbo, with no clue or care to the end