Remembering
Songs of seagulls picking at the ocean
Wind wafting through willow trees
Sprites clapping the leaves
The wushhh of tall green grass dancing in the wind
The loud silence of the stars
The Alchemy of Sound
Closing my eyes and pretending the breeze is green
When the melody must be enough
They looked at their friend and
proclaimed, exclaimed, and
declared
“I can’t, I
can’t, I can’t!”
and simply said,
“But you did,
it’s done, you won.”
“What’s next?”
Apparently, you got the manual.
Sometimes I find myself
wondering
are man-made
karmic catastrophes
merely sacrifices
on a grand enough scale
used to keep the
gods of old
satiated and asleep?
Anchored to a deaf beat
young love
or games of tag and “not it”
playing under twilight and
flickering lamp posts
necking, dubbing tapes,
gathering in school yards
or walking tentatively
hand in hand with your first crush
urban willows, shoestrings and
sneakers
doing the moon walk in the air
beneath the wire and the stars
while mothers called us all home
from
broken windows and rusted fire
escapes.
avoid parked cars and parks.
dye your hair, be home before dark
We knew what it meant to be
grounded
During the summer of Sam.
We did a thing, but at what cost?
Back then
Back when
Some how
Some way
We got it done
We done did it
We did a thing
We built nations
We won the day
But lost the way.
I can still smell
the cloyingly sweet smell of decay
so intermingled with the smell of you
remembered from my youth
I am forced to cry and long for both
knowing time is short.
Bury me with Alphabet Soup
Where I can swim and remake my stories daily
While eating the best of whatever the letters
Have to offer me
Sans salmonella and judgement
pomp and fancy circumstances
I wanna play with my food
Etch-a-sketch tater tots and build a fort
Yeah, tater tots, oh shit, not enough “t’s”
Ok, just Tots then.
Why are they backing up into us?
they are still backing up
closer
closer
look at this bitch
what the fuck
(deep breath, checks self)
wait,
what is she backing up from?
Remember those books that have
choices
between chapters
So that you could choose the
direction of the story?
Nostrils deep in the 7th
chapter
unable to make a choice
because my mind has expanded too
far
I see all paths at once.
The story of our rich diaspora
can best be told in the language of the curry
our ancestors carried to every continent and shore.
Sometimes I am inundated
with unbidden indoctrinated responses,
learned outrage and
fallacious concerns.
Where is my true voice,
under the morass of sticky insidious opinions &
residual offal left over from the
fungal puritanical imperialist bullshit
and its notions of superiority and beauty?
It’s a strange and twisted alchemy
If you think about it.
We are all of us
minds, spirits, conscious entities, energy,
call it what you will,
stuck in these curiously
limited and fragile
yet amazing bags of meat,
suffering our learned, actual, and perceived realities
with our own stories and baggage
and the stories we imagine, project, or know of others.
All swimming around each other
little ambulatory sacks of ego & chaos
spinning like planets
unable to embrace the multiverse of beautiful complexity
that is humanity in all its forms.
Seeing pieces of me
I recognize
In those around me
I do the work
Uncensored mirror in hand
I watch
I listen
I see
I hear
I learn
I evolve
I am an alchemist.
Wherever our feet take us
we have the right to call home
for our ancestors planted their first.
we seeded the fertile lands of the globe
we've given birth to nations so old
they've forgotten where they came from.
Like the sun, the moon and stars
I am glutton for punishment
returning cyclically to
subject myself
daily
to the infinite fall of man.
Pheromone intoxication
disquieted disposition
fearful anticipation
overwrought
overstimulated
ill prepared
untrained
... at odds with myself
in front of the mirror you hold.
Can I commit the sin without committing to it?
Perhaps I am wretched
and underserving of satisfaction?
Wherever i am
i feel Your eyes on me,
hear Your imagined whispered commands.
The thrill of your excitement ensnares me
Without even a touch
i am
repeatedly Undone.
Haunted by your unspoken invitation to submit.
Confessions hold no weight amongst the Guilty
while the Will battles notions of
Ego and Surrender,
Sacrifice and Desire.
Prayers with Opposed ends,
seek Absolution and Resolution in
Equal measure.
We cautioned ourselves not to fall
as we willfully skipped
downhill
as if to dare gravity, while
asking
for one more adventure
one more stollen moment
please.
I wish I was free to love you
invited to lose myself in you.
I submitted with unconscious relish
only to be left
conquered
defenses slashed and burned,
falling into an empty guff
untethered
but shackled nonetheless.
The freedom to dream serving as both
punishment and respite.
In another reality, I loved you
deeply
passionately, scars and all.
Perchance we were Bonnie and Clyde,
some notorious couple bent on world domination.
Perhaps that’s why in this life,
we found each other too late.
Let us work on ourselves
learn our lessons
pay our karmic debts
so when reborn
we can find each other anew,
and damn our prior incarnations …
the cause of our continued punishment.
Today, they are sad, in mourning
for all the things they'll never have the chance to do or share
morning tea on a cold fall day
snuggling till they fall asleep then waking gladly in each other's company
shared meals and conversations delving deeper
into their histories and scars
feeling irrevocably connected with each other and the universe.
They'll never go dancing
or feel snug in a shared sleeping bag.
The stars blinded at the light they shed
basked in the glory of their unencumbered stolen embraces.
Breakfast in bed
sci fi binging
They'll never share dreams or plans for a future
Lucky enough to have met
Unlucky in timing
They mourn what might have been
Another wound
a new psychic pieta to pick at
in the few stilled moments, they may find
to think of each other and what if's
trying to find a reason in the chaos of a universe
that showed them a door they could not walk through in this lifetime
Yet, perhaps, or never
while praying like an addict
for more stolen moments
knowing all the same
they will inevitably cause pain.
When asked if they are good people,
I simply say...
They are good people,
who do bad things,
to do the right thing,
for the wrong reasons.
Serving their heart on a platter, they asked
"Would you like salt with that?"
Serving their mind, shaken not stirred, they asked,
"Would you like a bitter olive with that?"
Placing their body on the buffet, they gayly handed over the filet knives and assorted cutlery
and made room for a feast for one
as they hovered at attention
prepared to serve
watching the entitled wanton gluttony, enjoyed at invitation
while praying for release.
A Satellite lost its way
submerging itself in dreams
distracted
looking for patterns
in the Stars
trying to see through the Veil,
as Moon hid in its shadow, in shame,
Guilty of having briefly
Shown Brightly upon an Orbit it might've called Home
only to be awed by the Birth of another Universe.
And still it spins
flying now
aimlessly through Space
in search of Gravity.
Bubbles
Meandering blindly though melancholy woods
They happened upon a path
showing alternate realities and futures
their present split into divergent stories
feeling the fabric begin to tare
they toyed with the threshold
before blinking, scared
both constant and indecisive
and turned.
When I permit myself
to wander into the lands of "What if"
I find myself looking over my shoulder
studying the life
from which
I
am
drifting.
They wished they were free to love you.
Invited to lose themselves in you
they submitted with unconscious relish,
only to be left
conquered
slashed and burned
defenseless and raw
falling into an empty guff
without a soul's peace or welcome.
The light I offer
Will always be available
regardless of the lens
it shines through.
Meet Now,
Met then
And Again
(Do you remember when?)
Some day the stars will align
and we'll be well met
wanting the same things
at the same time
once and for all.
A prayer for when stars align
and the gods take pity.
But not yet.
She bit her tongue till the
blood pooled in her cheeks
giving her the pale but rosy completion of a porcelain doll
fit to burst
waiting for her string to be pulled
again.
Like a word trapped on the tip of a tongue
my every atom
vibrates
with forgotten knowledge of you.
Haunted.
Every note tastes like you
otherwise discordant.
A bell wrung
notes foreign and familiar equal in unfathomable measure
drive me mad with a sense of unreasonable familiarity.
the sorcery of past lives
What was when?
And now is how...
am I supposed to choose?
Mind what you wish for
when there's more room on your palate
than your plate.
i imagine you saying
sit up straight
walk straight
keep your chin up
eat something
go to bed
let it go
sleep
As if i need that....
and i do...
but i'll balk all the same
at the imaginary dom
i continue to ignore.
And because that voice is not yours
i embrace the self neglect
familiar and safe.
You became my air.
without you,
I find I've forgotten how to breathe.
I blame myself,
thinking it was my time to exhale.
Silly me.
I forgot
We are so bone weary tired.
Caged in unnatural grids,
subconsciously we long for the days we rose with the Sun
living in commune with nature.
Now, we fight scrimp and save,
stealing from Peter, to pay Paul
for the "liberty"
to live in concrete boxes
surrounded by filth, noise. and commercial intrigues.
We've lost our peace with Peace,
cannibalizing each other as we've been taught to.
Our outrage and dissatisfactions manhandled and misdirected.
Our feet no longer caress the Mother.
Our eyes no longer look to the stars in awe,
but envy,
for the freedom we perceive in their lofty solitude.
We don't see space as cold and unforgiving.
We sense its infinite near perfect silence
free from the chaos of man.
As the heavens taunt us with what we've forgotten,
what we've sacrificed,
what we've lost,
indoctrinated to mistake "Free-Doom" for "Freedom",
Angels "shake their heads" equally confused
at what we've done with our gifts.
The 80's in New York City was a Riot of color and sound.
Bold bright neon colors and metal piercings,
new age pop, goth, rock and MTV.
Graffiti lined the streets and subway cars,
telling stories, marking territories, beautifying with color
what the city left drab and lifeless.
"Material Girls" walked around doing their best Madonna imitations,
while boys strutted in "Miami Vice" jackets, wife beaters or school uniforms,
piercings and tattoos temporarily hidden.
Jordache, Lee, Adidas and Pumas, "Bomber jackets" and "TROOP" jackets
coveted items often stollen following a beat down
despite the urban legend that TROOP stood for "Total Rule Over Oppressed People"
regardless of size.
The air was permeated oddly with both promise
and the stale smell of dirty water dogs, weed, crack and Drakar.
There was a magic to the city then,
when synchronicity would have you head out on your own, only to be well met by a group of friends in
Thompsons Park, Washington Square Park or Sheep's Meadow.
Landmarks were our beacons,
phonebooths our haven from the rain.
We saw people shine brightly, boldly letting their colors show
and embraced gayly for their courage in doing it.
Teen nights at the clubs and sweaty dance battles with late night recuperations at the Round the Clock
Cafe, Pizzeria Uno's or Micky D's.
where first dates were often had by,
nervous teens using their parent's credit cards for the first time,
when summers felt like they lasted forever,
and the threat of growing up seemed farther away than we wanted,
and closer than we were prepared for.
Under multicolored skies
and the city's daily serenade of sirens, curses and breaks,
children played,
with wanton sense of adventure that comes with longer days and warmer nights.
Street laps barking alarms to go home,
were ignored.
Butterflies, fire flies and green breezes were received with delight and wonder
as nature wafted hints of other worlds before our senses.
We were starved for nature but not curiosity.
Hopscotching over cracks,
we wondered at those who grew up with green lawns and extra curricular activities
while we build hide outs in vacant lots from pieces of broken fridges, cars and three legged grocery carts.
But while they had lemonade and pools,
we had piraguas with coconut water and liberated fire hydrants;
where they had soccer and football fields,
we had bottle cap soccer, handball, street rules football and basket ball in drug addled parks
There were no bike lanes.
Ingenuity and self preservation were the skills we learned.
There were no bucolic seating areas for us.
The city was our dangerous playground,
where the herd was culled daily
We didn't climb trees, but some did tied sneakers onto street lamps.
We explored abandoned buildings
in lieu of school dances with chaperones
we gave birth to instant street parties
with boom boxes and Abuelita's chicken and rice.
We came home filthy and inoculated and oddly satisfied.
We made the best of our communities, despite the powers that be.
