Haiku
On the outside no
razzle-dazzle no splash,, no sass
On the inside gold.
So where are you from? He asks.
I’m sucking down a cigarette with my last five minutes. I’ve been on the clock forever, and not trying to get into some bullshit.
Ohio, I say curtly, but I’ve been here in Kentucky for a long time now.
No, where are you FROM, from, he asks.
A hamburger wrapper blows by my feet, eager to get away from this unfolding scene.
Where am I from, from? His question bounces around in my head, words on repeat, skipping like an old played out CD while I leave my body.
Sun in Libra, Moon in Leo, Capricorn ascendant
My journey was mapped through space and time, dependent on my mother’s breaking waters.
I am a descendant of unholy acts of violence and resilience beyond measure
A mess of contradictions, no match for 23 and me
Paternal nose, maternal eyes
A burgeoning tempest in a dark and bloody sea
I’m from kitchen witches and code switchers
loud talkers who don’t mean what they say, nor say what they mean.
I am from from that government food that comes in the black and white cans
I am from from trips on city bus to that good Goodwill
I am from from emerald isles and the sweet Caribbean breeze.
I am from from an immigrant parent’s comfort food and trauma
I am from from Catholic mass with grandma, the opiate of the masses, my father said.
I am from from fireflies caught at dusk after backyard barbecues
I am from from free school lunches and tongues running loose and free
I am from from musical gifts passed down through centuries
I am from from Spring soil tilled and waiting
I am from from run down houses and nosy neighborhood watches
I am from from hurried walks home, dodging lecherous glances
I am from from “what are you mixed with?”
I am from from you don’t look like you’re from here
I am from from “talk to me in Spanish baby”
I am from from ¿Ella habla español?
His question is not a question, it is a signal that something doesn’t add up
It is a suggestion that I undress myself for the amusement of a stranger, so that he may place me in a box of his choosing and treat me accordingly.
He cannot comprehend that this question once had me swim beyond breaking waves to drown myself in the sorrow of not belonging.
Once had me cut the tender flesh of my arms to see what really lurked inside
Once had me drawing self portraits of blonde haired, blue eyed girls.
But where are you from from doesn’t gut me like it used to, it just pisses me off.
I imagine taking my fist and smashing his porcelain face into a million little pieces. I glue them back together and use them as an ashtray.
Transitioning back into my body I feel the cigarette burning my fingertips. The drive-through is backing up with a line of cars.
Breaktime is over.
My quill seems always out of reach.
Help me understand, I beseech.
Darkened pockets devour each.
Momentary spark of genius gone,
flitting towards the great beyond,
frustration left to dwell upon.
India ink freed as blood to leech.
As invisible ink disappears,
lost crest – once staged as band-o-leers,
for mechanical engineers –
Vacation needed – gone – the beach.
and I am in Proverbs,
reading about fools and dogs
returning to their vomit.
Creaking down the stairs the teen
sits beside me at the table –
poor sleep, he says, wondering
what the consequences would be for lying
to me last night, my most pet
of all the peeves – I still haven’t decided.
He wants to know what I’m doing
I almost say looking up punishments
but think better of it
and show him the difference in translations –
King James, Jimmy, of my childhood
with his narrow margins
and the new translation I’m looking at now.
He picks up the old version, likes
how worn it feels and its flapping
broken spine. On the frontispiece
my maiden name sits indelible and the date
says I was his age
when I was given this Bible
and this Bible is the same age I was
when he was born.
It takes effort to ply, pull, and grasp
To knead and scrub
To press, and twist, point, poke, and clap
It takes effort to make a tight fist
To clench and punch
To swing, and strike, pound, pump, and jab
Hands are the instruments of work and war
It takes effort to hold them fully open
By one’s own might
Fingers extended, palms flat
Appearing open
But holding onto –
Nothing
But a hand at rest
Cups itself
Creates a natural channel for
Whatever comes
And softly, warmly
Receives it
Doesn’t deflect or squeeze it
Two hands at rest, interlocked
Will naturally fold in prayer
Perhaps a hand at rest is
Perfectly cupped
Because it’s always at the ready
To hold the hand of another
Hands at rest
Hug, hold. embrace, and heal
Sabbath hands leave indelible marks
it’s sprinkling in late June
You prefer a raincoat versus an umbrella so you can hold more interesting things in your hand
involuntary memories turn into day dreams so grand,
a tiny sun ray that you felt would expand,
into ice cream on the beach in the sand, orange peel and passion fruit melt while you tan,
you’re taken away on a trip never planned
you’re wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day
you traverse over fallen leaves while more are falling, there’s plenty left on the tree to fall the rest of the eve
thinking about them often but not for too long,
you never figure anything out you just move on
It isn’t a step you do but something you experience
wanting is more than having, it doesn’t make sense..
In the spring of each year
We wish you happiness
Now, in the springtime of your seventies
We wish you also serenity, longevity
Agile, active, alert, adroit
Must feel strange
To be the same age
as old people
71 is an odd number and a prime
A twin with the next prime, 73
While 72, in between, is abundant
And half a totient gross
So now at last you have every right
To be light, be happy, grateful
To be magisterial and possesive
Of all that is rightfully yours
The life you’ve lived
The lives you’ve loved
The loves you’ve lived
The standards you’ve lived up to
So now, at last rejoice, rejoice at where you have been
What you have done
Wherever you have ended up
With clear skies ahead for sailing on and on
Jimmy the lock.
Watch for light.
If light don’t come,
try another door.
#
When mind shines
light a cigar.
Words will follow
like baby ducks.
