I take it back:
it was unfair to assume
that you were always in the moment–
hell, isn’t that what it’s supposed to be?
A series of moments
so we can call: “Roll tape!”
until slivers of black plastic
circle on, on
carrying us with it?
Are we all but one freaking
square on the roll, now,
that I must expect you to remain
in one essence of your human
being; flawed, whole.
“How do we make the squares?” you ask.
It’s like when we took a walk in stark sunlight
and you had kept your sunglasses on
so you stared into the bulb,
as if awaiting a past or future burst of energy–
but you realized all we have is light.
January 29, 2014
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
my mother yelled over the phone, to the cell phone
I had left behind in my high school locker room.
It had been stolen – so had my mother.
I had never heard her utter any swear
and I swear I saw her: in the streets of Jamaica Queens
proving her worth despite her five foot frame, Latina blood hot.
The thief called my house from my phone
as if I myself had planned it, simply to pull back the suburbs
from this woman who had given me life,
her words coming out like punches
until she smashed the phone down, smiled up
at me and said, “I may not know them,
but now they sure as hell know me.”
January 24, 2014
Do we live on the same dust speck?
An elephant can fit, as can a kangaroo; Dr. Seuss can fill a flower with rhymes
whirling asking, “Who? Who heard the voice call out from our speck?”
Two worlds emerge, hearts tied with bones and souls stacked in a row
too large to ever give way; yet it is a speck on which we live –
countless infinities on a collective inkling of life
too small to appreciate from the catastrophic American dream.
We open eyes that are not adjusted to the very light worth waiting for.
January 20, 2014
I ran out of ink but I kept writing on
anyway. Any way you look at it
the fringe may fade, but you read on;
you understand the pain passing
from pen to paper in mild madness
To boot it out of houses into hushed
minds until daybreak and all awaken
in sudden, war-torn moments-
ones of stillness and silence lost
in night creatures called humans.
We believe we are awake yet remain
lost in non-flowing ballpoint pens
only black sludge glowing, planning
an unwarranted escape plan out
of words clutching, hoping, waiting.
January 12, 2013
Patience is a virtue; patience is the virtue
that sends us on our way, in the right way,
a way that proves time always stands still in moments.
One city scape after another I have seen:
Worcester, Boston, DC, and soon LA.
What is to say to sparkling lights that remain,
patient in their hidings: they are lonely
despite their shine.
Windows give shape to souls that are closed,
trapped in unmoving time that makes no room
for peace, only strands of self righteousness
for their lack of a self; so be patient, darling.
December 12, 2013