Posts for June 19, 2023 (page 4)

my camera and I looking for the unusual, like a faded red rocking horse under a stable’s marquee, or an abandoned house falling to the east as the roof beams rot to powder, or the contradictions of brick mansions between the broken concrete of silos marking family farms, barely-two lane macadam roads with odd names like Steger, Andres, Pauling, and Burns, meaning nothing unless you know the land’s history, who built the railroads and tended the fields that made a Crete-Monee road out of wagon paths joining towns that fed the cities, all that is mysterious and nearly forgotten in the countryside’s genes, just as we will be when our great-grandchildren are old.

A drunk man waltzes shirtless past the bus stop,
flickering in the June air, orange-tanned, stumbling.
He drank a bottle of flowers, every petal is a sweet word
to slur for the girls with cheeks like roses, eyes of thorns,
but still he pours and pours, give me fucking thank you. 
His blue eyes blur down the street, tripping home to nowhere,
and in the morning the light is sour, the sun comes up grenadine.
And there is a time when that man is not drunk, but never free,
and he sits on the sill like a window-box of petunias, smoking,
 looking down at his life, his hands, hands who have ripped apart 
daisies, daisies that left no stain, no red to scrub from his teeth.
Not like the wine, not like the endless solace of pharmacies,
just a sweet scent of spring. Sorry falls like sundown’s color,
just something to sense, but never tangible enough, the night air
is only his own breath echoing. He is good. But he could be
other things too. Staring past himself to the garden, pondering
if it is worse that he does not know what he has done.

I stood on turf green grasses
Covering your graves; 
I felt the earth tremble and shake.

I lingered stoic beside the dove-white crosses 
Marking your graves
as if in an eteranal salute.

I gazed upon the 
funeral-white roses 
that lined 
the stark cold stone memorial.
I heard 
The broken sobs
Of
    your dads, 
    your moms,
    your wives 
    your children
As they read THE telegraphs. 

I occupied the bunkers
for a few moments–
smelled black battle smoke acidy  
Mingling with red hot young blood spills.

I stared out over your black cliffs
To see 
Rust-red chunks of warships
Half-submerged 
in ocean’s waters.

I listened 
To gentle waves 
Lap unto the whiskey-colored sand beach
Leaving Champage sparkling bubbles
reflecting bright, and clear
under cold sun rays.

I listened to the soft kissing 
Of the waves 
Against the rust red chucks 
Of warships–
Taking nothing–leaving nothing–
Perhaps ……….
The red rust
Holds behind it
Crimson stains
Never to be 
Washed away.

I felt myself weeping. 

Through the forest I have gone
I made a crown out of yellow flowers
I am Black royalty like my ancestors
I fall against a body of water
Running my hands through the waves
I am my Black ancestors who swam
Powerful, holy, and Black against the blue
The sun beats down on my back, we are
more alike than they ever taught us
I rest against the bank
In deep sleep I dream of freedom
I hear the drums beating again, and again
And when I wake, I dance
When I wake, I dance
Capitalism, grind culture tries to hold me down
strings and shackles around my ankles
But I do fear no more
I have the keys
I breathe
It smells like summer
                like libration

I love my mint green mug
Yet I love neither mint tea nor tea that tastes too much like tea

I love my men
Yet I love neither patriarchy nor men who wield masculinity as a weapon

I love peanut butter and chocolate
Yet I love neither colonialism nor oppressive labor practices

I love sliding between crisp sheets at night
Yet I love neither washing those sheets nor wrestling them onto my bed

No dead fish
                        am I
Hanging empty
                        in the maw
No Jonah case
                        Have I been
refusing medley
                        swallowed whole

nothing else 
                        I am
but this
                        the current

My new beauty is pale green.
Or I think I saw the walls were.
That soft hue, the shade of
crushed eucalyptus
diluted with mint.
Let’s make a candle of this
moment and burn it until
our eyes water, the color
of sea. The color of deep
rain. Yesterday, I met a cat
I did not know. I wasn’t sure
of her until she ran her full
body into me, crashed into
my leg like a wave. Like a
shipwreck. And when we got
free, she turned over on her
tummy and I was impaled
by the pierce of her pale
green eyes, a trident against
the dusk blue smoke of her
fur, lightest at the bottom.
What a flash of color for
anyone watching this fire fall
from gravity. Ash rising.
I’ve cut through water
just to be here. Slices
of ocean, of river
like rocks all around me.
The current keeps crashing.
My hands wet with the endless
liquid inside me as I open them
to ask again for forgiveness,
for beauty, even as I turn
toward the sea.

Energy flows, sparking
Creativity and determination.
Surely, this time, I will
Stick with it,
Riding the waves and the
Ripples until arriving at the
Quiet water just before the

       W
           A
              T
                 E
                    R
                        F
                          A
                              L
                                 L

                                      Plunging not to
                                      My death, but being
                                      Churned and pummeled
                                      Until once again
                                      Reaching a place of

                                        C      A      L      M  

I am an essay
chock full of little red lines
hilighting my errors,
underlining the mistakes
and even criticizing my best points.

Intro
Body
Body
Body
Bodybodybodybodybody

Dysmorphia

I am a grade at the top right of a page,
always measuring
never measuring up,
constantly looking for percentages
and congratulatory approval
“great job, A+”
and only finding binary,
lifeless code behind my eyes
telling me two different versions
of the same truthlie:
010111010000

0000000000000

0

0

0

“binary thought”
one or zero
black or white
left or right 
no two ways about it
but only two ways to see it
pass or fail
but it never mattered
because it was all in red
the whole time

In my head, there are two voices:
one telling me to do it
one whispering don’t
as if I ever had a choice in the matter.

My margins are filled with error
and my margin of error
is unforgiving at best. 

I crumple the page to start again,
hold down the backspace key,
and wonder if this time,
maybe,

My words won’t be cut
and my arms and legs won’t be
chock full of little red lines
marking places where perfection should be 
and instead
is only failure.

We all have our habits.
Sometimes it’s an addiction;
sometimes a person.

I think there will always be a trace
of you in this bar
found in the rainbow squiggles
added to many of the surfaces,
from the cornhole boards
to decorated coasters taped to the wall,
and most prominently, a bar stool
with all of our names
worked into the beautiful madness of your mind.

I remember sitting in notebooks and poems
on the patio with you, that bar stool,
and your chameleon markers.
We processed life in random lines,
occasionally breaking silence
when art was not enough.
My oppressive new job, your possessive boyfriend.
Those days when it was just us
were in curious ways the best
because you would allow yourself to cry.

You were at war.
I committed myself
to marching beside you
to helping you shatter his influence.

I remember your birthday.
When I tell that story to others,
I’m blindsided by the *chocolate* you shared,
the sudden hour-long tingling stare into the parking lot,
but truthfully,
I knew exactly what you had offered. 
Deep down, I recognize
such an extreme break in character
could only have been facilitated by you.

I had hoped
we would do that more.
Nights to sit and vibe.
There was potential.

No one else here knows about these feelings,
though I’ve often pondered sharing
then since and now. 
We all knew where you were at.
I was content letting you rediscover yourself
free of him.

Problem was
you lost every sense of you were when you were with him
which made it terrifying to try to be anything without him
including yourself.

Months since I last saw you
I guess no news is good news.
If you’re happy and content
then I hope the miracle never spoils.

But I may always think about you, wondering
should I have revealed more of myself to you?
every time my eyes fall
upon that doodled-on barstool.