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Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

Soft breath came out in undulose roll, a serenity given to understanding incidences of stolen moments receding. Time time time, just a moment away.

All she ever wanted was a muse by her standards which were seemingly not set too high. It didn’t take much to ignite the visionary exacting that lay inside her, but love was indubitably, formidably, the key. The world could speed up for all it wanted, or creak slowly in orbit, if-to-when that one would enter stage left. Or right. Or come climbing down downy, silken spun, dream-fire-escapes and just come on in. The water is oh so fine.

Her inner workings were a scramble. Try she might, but the holes inside were waxing and waning with the tides and the moon. Her fits of full and lonely nipping at her heels just the same.

Sometimes the vibe was self-evident. A physically provable thing, probable thing, displayed in sights of messy hair, tired from tugging. Showed up in baggy eyes, bruised from booze. Achey muscles, self-induced over-workings, awaiting their holy massage.

Thank the greatest ones for her breath. The flowers were with gratitude. The trees felt younger for it. Where she could finally slow her roll and simply believe… just a moment away.

xo

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Phosphenes. That’s what they’re called. Seeing light without light entering from a source outside of ourselves. “A luminous image produced by mechanical stimulation of the retina, as by pressure applied to the eyeball by the finger when the lid is closed.” Or- you know, sitting bent over, or lazing dreamily and jamming your palms into your sockets. Your choice.

That was my first trip. I would lay for what seemed like hours in kid-years. Staring at rainbow pinpoints that would reliably scurry off once I would unsoften my focus. This I learned: to take in this self induced beauty, one must look ahead and not direct into the source. Those dots would always disappear before me if I got greedy and tried to look right at them. Don’t look at the amazement head on, but gaze ahead, knowing it’s around you, and absorb. 

And isn’t that the catch? Couldn’t this be the world’s most tragic metaphor? ~Babies first transcendant experience~ teaches that beauty is not ours to hold, but to be in, without attachment. It all keeps moving… Tragedy is a mere definition according to the beholder, sure, true. One can say at least there is beauty. At least we can retreat to our own minds and watch the show. Our own private viewing. Available at any time. No screaming children or lousy large popcorn to reckon with. Just the thin veil of splendid. Yes yes- your argument is fair.

Those phosphenes. Their gentle model. Proof that entertainment lies within. Proof that we are mere continuums of space, a float. Proof that we can’t know it all, beyond a few syllables fortunate enough to be strung together and a limiting capper of a definition. Those dots of light showing us the fluidity of artistry. No more manmade brightness, kids. Retreat and test. You know you want to. See your science sleeping with your spiritual. Bare witness to the bed where-which they meet and get freaky. But don’t try to figure it out.

phosphenes

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I AM NOT A HAMMER! Not a hammer. He screamed inwardly, directing his intentions at the tall, rough-brick buildings, the foreboding, overlooking passersby, the ominous, taunting sky. Screamed on the inside and what good did it do, but translate to another twisted face of his. The fear and anger welling up once again. If only he’d learned in time to pipe up, if only his voice could back him, if only the right person had asked the right things, if only. If only. If only.

Ah, but that is the curse of the foster kid shuffle. Is it not? The souls it claims tumbling out in ruins, vacillating between the unstoppable, menacing dissonance in splatter-surround-sound, incessantly playing between ears of the touched, and coming out loud, disconcerting… Or the quiet ones; The ones still entangled in the monster-under-the-bed deluded illusion of the “if I can’t see them, they can’t see me” variety. Eyes averted. Lost beyond the depths. A despondency measured in dog years.

Herein is where our homeboy lay. He’d been pushed out into the sun under a bad star from the jump. Tunnels of NYC ain’t no place to form a baby, especially when a woman didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with her until the day she uncontrollably wet herself, and was stabbed by alien pains emanating from the depths of her belly when she was mostly used to being numb.

Cries and primal, animal sounds rung the dark maze beneath the streets that morning, about an eighth of a mile shy from the nearest shaft of dusted light. A baby was born onto a worn mattress full of unspeakable stains. Picked up reluctantly by filthy, unexpectant hands, and held, finally, to a tattered breast on a tired body with a rapid heartbeat, and the first. blossoming. of instant. surprise. love. a person can only know once they’ve been left to bleed and all else had failed.

And speaking of blood, holy mother was it a mess. Messy from day one. This woman! She had no idea. She was just walking in the shoes that she’d been given a generation or two ago. She couldn’t be sure. Family history was never rich on the roster. But she’d stayed on the same path as her own mother. Tending her habits above all else. Passing them on to her skinny, miracle child.

It was novelty at first. Because she’d never really known care. Never really known responsibility. Didn’t know the first thing about child rearing but hot-damn would she do her best. Her capabilities were few- let’s not glorify. I mean, an addict in deep is an addict in deep. But little can be done to stifle that innate knowledge that woman share. The one that is connected to ancestry. To source. The umbilical chord of the universe. She tended best she could, long as she could, until the mouth became too needy. Her own needs too greedy, to give proper attention to a babe.

So off with it on the kind of hot summer night where the nail-exposed overhangs drip with polluted condensation and people move molasses slow to keep the heat at bay. Off with it, this kid, this monkey, this needy thing she never wanted, couldn’t even remember how it happened in the first place. Off with this and onto some store’s front stoop where come morning a startled Asian grocer would find a itty-bitty-stinky-baby in a box and stare at in amazement for one shocked moment, wondering how people could be so cruel, before picking up the entire box that weighed all of 6 pounds and bringing it into NYPD’s 5th Precinct on Elizabeth and Canal, to be stared at suspiciously and questioned with intimidation, armed with about 30 specific, limited to shop-talk- English words. Oh poor secret Asian mang.

Fast forwarding our tale and on with it. Our poor guy. Our poor baby who would be sure to grow slight in height, and not far in the mental. Our poor guy who was to be pushed, dropped, dragged, and kicked through an unchecked system of house after house and on. Filled with predator and mouse. Loud television and louse. Lack of love, direction, or reliable constant. The irony of taxing the shit out of parents desperate to adopt, and adversely allowing the shittiest of the lot to be foster parents. And paying their asses. The horror. No criteria having mother-fuckers. Something to shake your head at.

Our boy never developed much of a taste for outward speak. Didn’t have much to say. Maybe he didn’t know how. Perhaps he lacked the overlooked tools of expressivity or composition. Teachers thought he a lost cause. Not much you can do with a lump that sits in the corner, refusing to engage. So in he went and out again. And at the glorious age of 18; the ripe age where we are fit and tied to greet the world; the age where we no longer need guidance or help at all, ever, and are ready- all of us- for complete and utter independence- our homeboy was let out.

He was like an instant street rat. Literally like a fucking rat. Where he learned from the rodents basic survival. Eat what you can find. Drink where you can find. Sleep in the little nooks where people are not apt to disturb you. He took to the streets with arguable natal instinct. The streets gave him selective shelter, opened up his fuzzy focus. Taught him the freedom to sit and stare. The freedom to bark or growl or yell at random- all of which he practiced, just to see. But it wasn’t him. He was the silent type. You know. On the city pulsed and he felt off-shook by the beat. Our boy never had the luxury of feeling steady, really. His only purpose was today, I suppose. The ability to reflect on purpose is paired with those on the elevated levels of the comparably modern day caste system. Paired with those where the concept of hedonism can ring. Where people can afford sarcasm. His pockets bore holes and his currency nil.

Our boy. Left to eat the dust. Left an empty shell of nobody. He never got to be. Some people never do. They run through depleted soil from dia numero uno. No chance. Bleek grim. A sad ending from the beginning. A side bar. An untended, deficient weed.

In a world of hard focused happy endings I embrace the grime. Tip a 40 oz., a pinot with your pinky in the air, your G & T, your whisky neat, rip the tip off your blunt if you gotta- for all the living ghosts out there. They’re out there right now, shuffling, rocking, hiding. Tip it and sip it and know you got it good, and if not good, better than a lot.

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Today I stomped the ground in careless play, noticed the reverb of hollow from below. Pounding above a bomb shelter, a tunnel, a tomb? Above all in absent awareness…

…Calling for a dig exceeds my jurisdiction but if I had the power, the earth would be pocketed in curiosity, and restored rapidly in vigilant remorse, for better or for worse.

I recall clearly as a child, a teacher telling class that the Native Americans we so romantically studied lived where our houses were. My house. A top ancient secrets. Those powerful beings who understood the tangibility of seasons, ran through crisp, blue corn fields, made with callused fingers- beads of dried piñon berries, lived nobly herding flocks, believing in coyote medicine…

I had the presence of mind to know that their reign extended beyond the small stretches of my yard. Most likely to at least the perimeter of my block, or ”la manzana”, as my pops called it. I came home that day to scour the ground and blacken my baby nails in dreamy hopes of turquoise treasures, dulled arrowhead, bird bones. Nothing ever came of these missions. Time would give way to something shiny, some tinsel or so, leading my excavation, my excursion- to press on in whispered hope.

bow arrow

During the time of year where the leaves find themselves tossing in tiny tornadoes, and the cold makes scarlet our cheeks, I will be greeted by the painfully beautiful scent of burning cedar. Instantly I transport to the vast expanse of my time living on the rez with the Dinéh people, an event that was lead by the hand of my earlier fascination and curiosity.

I breathe in and hold.

Smoke, providing a background where images dance and bob. Broken relics of poetry and dry dirt. Old woman of long braid and woven skirt. Counting sheep. Snapping sage brush. Being followed by a pack of loyal, rag tag dogs with each step. Awaking before dawn with purpose to ensure warmth by lighting the fire…
With that smell I am carried, and not a moment too soon.
I am living simply. I am living at peace. I am living with full intention. The red earth stretches for days and I revel in wonder about what tales are beneath.

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Mom told me never

trust a man in a trench coat-

bunch of pervs out there

*****

Because every day

I see you outside, first thing.

Neighbor, get a life

*****

I pee way more than

the average person or

is 30 normal?

*****

My best friend’s brothers

tortured him when he was young-

hair clippings in pants

*****

What an unlucky

incarnation to be a

dung beetle. no thanks

*****

*****

I might have sex with

my iphone if there was an

app that could please me

*****

I am a poet

I know it. Don’t question me

obvs. you’re just jealous

*****

Whenever it’s hot

outside- I am so thankful

that I don’t have balls

*****

Inconvenience is

dandruff with a preference for

wearing mostly black

*****

I am not alone

in painting just the toes that

show through my peeps-shoes

*****

*****

I’d rather not go

if it means that I have to

see your stupid face

*****

You could be so cute,

so here’s a razor; a gift!

bye bye to mustache

*****

When riding bikes it

is ill advised to blow

a snot rocket up wind

*****

Little kids are cute

but made of germs and rubber

fall and sneeze often

*****

His shoes smelled like sex.

How did he do that? Had me

grossly confounded

*****

 

*****

A more respectful

way to say it would be “Bros

before Does!” I’m good.

*****

Mr. Face Tattoo

“upstanding citizen”

holy commitment

*****

Penny for your thoughts

I’d surely get a nickel

ignorance is bliss

*****

Feel the magic beat

Shake what your mama gave ya

don’t step on no toes!

*****

Just cause we made out

doesn’t mean I like you. Blame

it on the whiskey

*****

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In one swift motion I set to emancipate the cavalcade of ideas that splintered the air whenever you were released from the weathered barracks of my mind.

I had actively intended on to burying the idea of you.

It was the irresistibility of flirting with disaster when I wrang your number just to hear your name, having nothing to say.

Irony is comedic only in time, where once it sliced.

The question hung: does purging happen in Purgatory, or do thoughts become mute? Paused. I wondered truly.

It was being somewhere on the cusp between “me” and “us” and I was caught holding thin hopes in one hand that we would withstand, and shielding my eyes from even picturing your image with the other.

Duality- a hard iceberg to straddle. Icy waters splash and are no friend, and it’s no fun to slide and fall when you’re all by yourself and not laughing. And there is nobody to pick you up, brush you off, warm you.

The wieght of one steam engine is what it took to pull you out of myself. But like ripping a  weed out at the base, disregarding the roots, your face returned, reliably.

Your face. A smooth pallet of yesterday. A memory of the fruit that never fell from the tree. And an understanding of how delicious I’de thought it could be.

Luckily there is time- the magic magnet- pulls heavy metals from blood. Gravel from cuts. Heals wounds, though occasionally trapping debris.

When you come to me now I don’t tremble anymore, but that doesn’t make me steady. You can’t expect to be let in and must know now that you will never know me. Count that. I am tied up in the back for safe keeping. Your embraces last too long, and you’re too small for this song, and the vacancy bulbs are all burnt.

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