Her money vanishes into thin air
as more glass fills the household,
each holding a distinctive memory
valued in time that I did not know.
In them, I can see the shining patterns:
drafts of flowery trees, ripe with essence;
extending their glazed, flat-shaded blossoms
that thrive in a land that I do not know.
My place is a museum of history.
Alive, ancient faces and fragile swans,
telling me countless tales of virtue
in a growing world that I now do know.
Sometimes, I question why my mother
wants me burdened with knowledge so big
when she herself, survived on so little.
That, I will never know.
Friday, January 3, 2014
Black Magic
{Tick, tock.
Tick, tock.}
Weak & broken in this bed: I revert
back
into the womb; the lights,
Apollo &
all his sons & daughters,
extinguished by the nocturnal shade.
{Tick, tock.
Tick, tock.}
In the security of these assorted charms,
I
pump
out adrenaline
in
surges:
·
uneven mountain trails outline my
spinal cord &
·
migraines received like text
messages as I am given the signal:
“this is it.”
{Tick, tock.
Tick, tock.}
Out of the box,
a layer
of duppies
s p r e a d s
out the
arena:
past memory, vying
for connections to my wavelengths;
they feed on my empathy in abundance;
their
last supper did not supply them well.
{Tick, tock.
Tick, tock.}
Just like voodoo,
my
irises open the floodgates of
blackened holy water; bring forth
flashbacks
that have been suppressed
for the
good of my nation & of self.
{Tick, tock.
Tick, tock.}
As I die for many decades
mending
my impaired mind, I look up
to the
ceiling and become immortal: forever,
[in
this static space.]
{Tick.}
Bored Games
Just as I tend to do with all my homework and trials,
I took it
seriously. You didn't take the energy well. The map
was hard
to navigate and to figure out and we about to give
up countless
times before we realized, we made a mistake. After
the game
was over, the X and O pieces fell to the floor and
by the wind's
hand, were thrown over the gates and were sent by
flight to
different corners of the world, where they would
never again,
return to the box. You said that you wanted them
back, but I
told you I didn't play with gamblers anymore.
Ramblings of an Optimist
A bounce from the room’s shaded wall, the
window
lures me into her portrait frame with an auburn
dress,
and a belly ready to give the birth of light in
shafts
that tear the swamp into flavors of discarded textbooks
and Fruit of the Loom underwear. The artwork
itself
runs across the glass, pressed of finger code:
squirrels
hold on in complete trust to their phantom
wings on
wire cables attached to poles, an instant
getaway from
the privileged hawks that engulf their bodies
into
gold streaks of armor, apprentices to the
mighty phoenix.
Kittens play hooky from school, nestled and
turned over
under the Mother Earth. Rats swiggle their way
through
the clumps of matted lawn in-between armies of
grass blades;
moist, they are pinned into the soil as I
scream for help—
messages with
the air of smoke inside cloudy bottles sent to
the fixed pool up above, trapped in its own
crystal games.
Memory of Eden
I remember the fall out of wooden trunks thrust
together by the endless labors of Adam and Eve.
With each toy active on my bedroom floor, under
the stars,
I evolved into this alien concept with monkey
ears from
heaven; only living for the moment of the single
digits. And
you were that prized blonde trophy I carried
with me and climbed
to the top of that glass skyscraper etched in
chalk and showed
off to our parents, as useless as ants. As the
firefly jars grew
older with dust and mold, so did we. To our rusting
mothers, we
traded in our sparkled wands and rainbow capes
for black pens and
backpacks and got sent out into the wild
unknown at the sudden sound
of an alarm clock. Our red apples rotted in our
heads and we became
the gray cores of forgotten juice.
Frau Troffea (Inspired by the Dancing Plague of 1518)
Buzzing through my ear,
can you hear it too?
those sounds; dispatches
riding falling blue.
Touching our hearts,
the virus bug
triggers our minds,
captures our souls in
charming lyrical binds.
Let me live this fantasy
out into the infinity,
forget about our sanity,
nothing is inanity.
I’m compelled to stop,
but the beat goes on!
I want this moment to last
forever, you and I
under the breaking sky.
My reality will crumble
but I’ll dance the parts
piece by piece until I die:
turn into rubble.
(Notes)
I found this plague to be a rather interesting event. It began in July of 1518 when its fist victim, Frau Troffea, began to dance in a street in Strasbourg, Alsace. Apparently within a few days, there were these large gatherings of people who danced for hours to days straight, not even taking a break for anything other than just- dancing! As a result, many of these people died from conditions such as heart disease or from exhaustion.
More information here: [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dancing_Plague_of_1518]
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