you make me feel like I could do
anything
like I could hold the sun
in my palm
and then blow out the
stardust
I’ll sprinkle the light on
everyone around me
so that they can be magic
too
you’ll look at me
and tell me that
you love me for it,
you don’t even know
that you give me the
power
This word is “safety.”
You will find it in our dictionaries.
Hold the feeling in your mind, but don’t expect it
on our streets with that accent.
Next is “freedom.”
I can teach you to pronounce it,
I can show you that I have it,
(My skin is the right color.)
but do not expect too much of it here.
“Opportunity” is your new word.
Now try it in a sentence–
Opportunity is not for you.
To give you some, we would have to
loosen our grip on our crisp, green dollars.
How will I teach you
the meaning of this country?
Our symbols and slogans ring hollow.
You can join our melting pot,
but you will never be the cook.
I will teach you with new words.
Poor offerings, but they are what I have.
The first is “hope.” It will fill your sails
and propel your tired body forward.
Next is “compassion.”
It will give you patience for those souls
who are also worthy, even as they
have closed their eyes and hearts in fear.
“Perseverance” is your new word.
Now try it in a sentence–
I love you for your perseverance.
Let me listen to your story.
Let me join you in your walk,
clear paths for you so long grown over.
We are all students here.
Feeling you wash over me,
phantom pinpricks across both arms
immediately rippling their way
into goosebumps, I can’t help but wonder
if you are the one who will cross with me
that stone bridge I see in my dreams,
removing me from all the snapshots
I’ve committed to memory—
the smell of my mother’s hair,
lavender vanilla, a bit of Chanel;
my dad’s low chuckle, waking up
for brunch on Saturdays,
how the backyard breathes after rain—
bringing me to the other side
of what I have yet to discover,
tiptoeing through the starry dark,
skipping from cobblestone steps
to another realm of being,
headspace that doesn’t know me yet,
so allowing me to delve headfirst
to the truest scenes at my core
that lie buried in a darkroom bath,
photograph by photograph
yet to be developed—
a task I’d never have begun
without you by my side,
without your hand ever-closely
intwined in mine.
take it or leave it
it’ll have to do:
a burnt grilled cheese
the last beer, hot
the rusted-out pickup
on the mortgaged farm
however many days you have left–
knowing
whether you spend them alone
or not
isn’t up to you
The milky worlds/ the pale grey islands;
Parallel worlds/ set in a jagged universe.
Frantic strokes make a human face/
Partially hidden by rough overgrown hair.
That cuts through the stagnant atmosphere;
Kept alive by vacuums in the chest.
A pallid look is upon the artist’s face;
As if he is a stranger to himself.
His two identities/ residing on barren grey islands.
Searching forever, for some understanding;
Finding no peace, in what knowledge is gained.
The artist’s portrait,
The self portrait;
Dancing lines connected and freestanding.
Constantly moving,
Rearranging and growing or shrinking.
The portrait rendered is a mere impression;
Pulled from experience with oneself.
What truth is there to be found?
Is that the portrait is a mere snapshot,
A look into a doppelgangers eyes.
The milky white worlds/ grey islands and sole inhabitants.
The spider limbs/ vacuum chests;
And pallid stare.
The self portrait betrays the ideal self,
In favor of a far greater truth.
The work never finished;
The final truth never grasped.
The lessons continuous;
And the portrait ever aging.
For the first time in months
I let my arms wrap around a body
The way Deuce, wide-eyed and wagging tail,
Places his body on top of mine and licks
Until my wet face can’t help but smile and say,
Alright, alright, I love you, too!
We hugged and we talked like the times weren’t
What they were and GOD it felt good to let my
Shoulders slouch and my mouth utter petty words
I wouldn’t have to fact check the moment I got home.
These heavy days have a way of choking out
The laughs and the love fighting their way
To the surface
Every tree is haunted
a house in the waiting
its old spirits
whispering in the leaves
What things we build
from these old woods
their forest sounds
a deeper language
A murder of crows comes calling
from these old woods
ancient words of warning
a no trespassing sign
Where thorns are thirsty things
old spirits looking for flesh
a warning ignored
every tree is haunted
I keep fingering my sunburned skin.
Something about the sting radiating from the heat captivates me.
Raw and red.
No blisters, or sun poisoning.
Just a gentle reminder
That I am human.
Invincible to nothing,
Vulnerable to everything.
My mama smacks away my hand.
The white imprint lingers for a moment.
Eventually fading.
I’ll wait till she isn’t looking
Before I press into my skin once again.
My tween tunes in to the wonderful
weird wide world of Willie Wonka
with its sweet treats
eccentric characters
creepy music
even creepier Oompa Loompas
the stuff of delicious nightmares
a fun fictional realm ending
happily
the bizarre made
simple
Where can we find a golden ticket?
If I could, I would have a large studio
scattered with Kandinsky rugs
popping with red & orange
& yellow.
There I would write in front of windows
larger than I.
They would stand open to embrace
soil aroma skidding on mistral streaks
of breeze.
I would watch willow branches
sway in wind, their leaves pulsate
to raindrops.
I would hang copper pots & star-
shaped wind spinners from rugged
wooden beams overhead.
Sun shaft & shadow & starlight would undulate
across my notebooks, scattered
over my desk, half-open, rough
around the edges.
And if I could, in the evenings,
I would pull down darkness
like an ebony shade over earth
so that we—scattered in our lovely colors
across ocean & countryside & city & forest—
could sleep in safety
while charms of hummingbirds
spun & hovered in dreams
above jasmine blooms
like stars in grass
waking within us the knowledge
of roots like veins
running through All.
