Crazy People
I was raised to fear
The artist’s messy methods.
Now, it’s my whole life.
When I was a child
I’d scream as ants ran
their way across the tile
of the bathroom floor
and made their way to my feet.
I’d cry as the bees bumbled
through our neighbors garden
and the cicadas crusted
their shells onto the trees
of the schoolyard where the boys
would chase us with them.
I’ve always hated insects.
As a teenager I’d freeze in fear
seeing the orb weaver who
made a home outside
the kitchen window.
I did not sleep for days
when a centipede crawled up
from the wall at the corner
of my bed. Now, somewhat adult,
I watch a creature with too many
legs try to make its way into
my room. I should say something
merciful, poetic. It is alive; it is creation;
it wants to be warm just as much
as I do. But I cannot believe it.
And now, with as much ease
as I can muster, I bring my foot
down on the carpet and softly
whisper, no.
Nowadays
tall trees mean wealth.
The trees havn’t been felled
for profit.
They’ve been allowed
to remain
to shelter and protect
select humans.
With luck
sometimes you’ll find them
even now
standing tall,
filtering sunlight,
bestowing blessings.
My yin room is dark and foreboding:
A depression den, so to speak, of forgotten
Boxes and belongings.
It is here I feel sad, embracing the existential dread
Of my being; the world is cruel and cold, and will not change.
It does not know how to hold the intensity of changing temperatures.
The hallway is a liminal state,
A transition between sleep and wakefulness.
My yang room is light and welcoming:
A sunshine suite, so to speak, of treasured
Windows and cushions.
It is here I feel joy, in love with the wonders of the world
And the people in it; my heart holds immense compassion.
I spread my lightness into the sky so the clouds may feel my warmth.
When I was young
all I wanted was to be seen.
To be noticed
and for someone to realize
I was there.
To see the beauty of my mind
and the kindness in my heart.
The dreams that kept me going
when my part of the world was dark.
I retreated to the comfort
of my dark bedroom
and hid away behind books.
I drifted away in the lyrics of songs.
Because someone, somewhere felt it too.
to
capsize, swept
across the
dark stone,
the
thick moss of
the
past, teetering
decades
overcast
with
the cold
country
of
over-
extending,
writing about that
white wall of
dying,
your life
unspooling—
a pulled thread from the tangle of
time,
a
heap of memories.
~ An erasure of Rebecca Solnit’s essays, The Faraway Nearby, pg. 143-4
a scribbled note in a child’s hand ~ fer halp mi reed
phonetically scrawled
syllables scramble ~ vowels dance in and out
innocent love bleeds
a first grader’s note?
no, a recently transferred east L.A. 5th grade bi-lingual student
parents working two jobs
thankful he’s in “Happy Corner” after school program help him ’til dark
this scotch-taped family hold each other tight
storm survivors squeezing an immigrant’s dream
my heart screams
“WORK FOR FREE!”
I check Temu, my retinas rebel.
Prices rise, even on items marked “locally available” –
exempt from tariffs. Merchants make up
the difference where they can. (Just ask Walmart.)
Higher prices on coffee, instant or grounds, feel punitive.
Will I be denied that waking scent?
Will my treasured French press be relegated
to cheap, generic black tea bags at $2.99 a box?
Will tariffs hit tea?
Even on Amazon joe costs more, though
my Café du Monde preference with chickory remains
manageable. Perhaps more folks will find the additive stretches
the brew, or does the cult of fake coffee attract:
Postum, Almost Coffee, Pero, Teeccino?
No, no cost relief down that road.
Why pay more for zero caffeine?
“Eggs are down 400%,” says the fool
who thinks “groceries” constitutes a quaint, old-fashioned term.
Is this prophecy: groceries vanish into the past?
GLP-1 products become obsolete?
My Italian lemon ricotta cake will not be baked;
refusal to pay certain prices constitutes personal protest.
Basque cheesecake? Cream cheese equals luxury
on Social Security.
A friend hit the local food pantry.
Produce filled one refrigerator, “Take two.”
When she got home,
opened her bags of strawberries and little zucchini
to reveal rot and mold. What was the point?
With 50% tariffs on steel and aluminum
even canned commodities will vanish.
Non-organic bananas now appear at the old price for organic.
This is a problem: we don’t build bananas here.
hidden deep in her
mindseye her name soft lamb neck
in her own hand ghost
blue shadow peaking at her
whispering but the cicadas
the buzzing blue is all she can see & hear crawling
all over the windows wings shimmering
in pale light their red against the sun
washing the blue out
flashing like partial eclipses tiny beating suns
heartbeats forming in her throat
& then her name came
spilling out her mouth Icarus
in fairy form wings sparkle & ash falling
from the sun dusting the room in soft echos
her name in her mouth foreign fruit
biting into her tongue
