Posts for June 17, 2018 (page 4)

Dear Dream Cockatrice,                  
     There is no port in which to berth                
     our restlessness. Rattle all the forged                
    chains at once, our anchor finds no purchase.                
     Hand over hand, link by link, reel in                
     the dizzy shore. Ring the bell,
     we’ve been rigging sail too long.
     Knossos has slipped by.                
                             Yours,                                
                                         Odysseus

Nobody is separate
from anybody else
Here I am
in the womb of my
blooming in the joy of
hidden rhythms
on the lips of dreams
the window from where I
sharpened to the point of infinity
the words kept forming
a door in my imagination                          

~ Cento of lines taken from Frida Kahlo’s Diary, translated by Barbara Crow de Toledo and Ricardo Pohlenz, p. 211, 215, 230, 235, 243. 245, 270, 272, 273, 281, 283

You have the right to be black but WE have the right to not care.

You have the right to purchase a gun, stick it in your mouth, and WE

have the right to call the police to come and point twenty more guns at you begging you

to give them a reason.

You have the right to kneel during the national anthem—no you don’t.

You have the right to have a vagina—nope.

You have the right to freedom of speech if you are speaking about Jesus or Hitler.

You have the right to be a Mexican immigrant and WE have the right to form drunken, gun toting, border patrolling militias aiming our sights at your face.

You have the freedom of religion, but your god better not be brown.

You have the freedom to be raped. No really you do because the Judge will let him off because his future potential outweighs your civil rights.

You have the freedom to be shot by a police officer at anytime due to the fact that badges are synonymous with omnipotence.

You have the freedom to vote for two individuals controlled by the same billionaires.

You have the freedom of creature comforts to keep you distracted.

You have the freedom to only care about yourself.

YOU have the freedom…

When shuffling a deck of cards,
the number of possible combinations
is as follows:

80,658,175,170,943,878,571,660,636,856,403,766,975,289,505,440,883,277,824,000,000,000,000

Somewhere, some Average Joe
is going to shuffle a miracle
and won’t have the slightest clue.

Little steps
short legs 
ocean big
to small eyes.

Your breath is deep and cadent
your body on the bed recumbent
but the crease across your brow
and stone of muscle at your jaw
tell me your worries do not rest
when you rest.

You carry them with you into sleep
and they seed your dreams
with loss of those you love
or love turning against you.
Your worries turn rest
against you.  

You cannot let them go.
Your worries give you comfort
though they prick the skin
and cast foul shadows in every corner.
They mapped the world for you.
They are tracks to a known destination
less frightening than seeking
unseen brighter places.

Tonight when you rest
let me hold your worries
so you have the rest that repairs
broken stitching and doesn’t tear
new holes for worry to nest in.
You can take wingless flight
to fantastic places in dreams
that make you wake up laughing.

Each
lit-
tle
rest
is 
a 
cleans-
ing
of
the 
pal-
ette.

Can you place warped puzzle pieces?
Losing the young draws twisted
Patterns impossible to untangle.  
Why are stalwarts as much a victim
As the corrupted, venal, criminal?
 
In our age of medical miracle why do
We still lose to common malady?  
Why do good works laid down freely
Count for nothing when vessels burst?  

There are platitudes, old wives tales,
Even scriptures but no answers.  
I hear advice  that we should not
Ask for reasons, or question why.  

No, I have a brain and pain and refuse
To bear up. I will not be brave or excuse
My loss as just another of life’s burdens .

I will screech at injustice inflicted.  
 I want revenge to quench this fire.

This is the picture that nice man, the one who stopped to see if we two single women needed help changing the flat after I’d done it, bless his heart, took with my Brownie. Oh, that roadster looks dirty, but then we’d done a lot of driving. And there was more to come, yes. We’d already been all the way to Smithsburg, and we were on our way back here. Days alone together, taking turns driving, before the roads became highways.

Should I tell you the story about the not-so-nice man who tried to rob us in Pittsburg? Millie kicked him in his tender parts, and when he dropped his gun I picked it up, so when he finally got up and said he was going to kill us both I really did have to shoot him. It was bad luck that a policeman came by, and quite a chase until we lost him in a bad part of the city. They could still be looking for us, though it’s been a lot of years now, and there’s only me left to look for.

Or should I tell you the truth, that we went to Millie’s brother’s wedding, and aside from the flat tire and the lovely nights, it was a very boring trip? Maybe it’s all true.

Yes,we’re standing sort of far apart in this picture. It wouldn’t have done for anybody to think, let alone know, that Millie and I shared a bed. We both had family and children, jobs and church.It’s different now, mostly, and since I lost her, I don’t really care what people might say. Either story you believe, that part I swear to.

Every Sunday brings some glee—
No frantic rush to holiness
No struggle to believe and belong
No strangling on outrageous claims.

How believe the baloney
When beauty waits to be known
Held, tasted like fresh red currants
On their way to jelly?

The side door opens toward
An accidental weeping willow
Maple, apple, barn, a small hill
Beyond fear and righteousness

This and breath and stillness
Make all things well.