My Mother’s Dreams
The inquisitive little girl listened as her mother spoke to her. She loved her mother’s stories each night before she closed her eyes and fell asleep. They helped her settle into the warm folds of her blanket. As her eyes closed her mother spoke.
“Sleeping wind lays its breath on the earth. Quietly she turns, moving nothing but herself. No one notices her nascent presence. Her dreams though make wild and blustery sounds. Pushing through window screens and laying those very same dreams on you my dearest.”
(The willowy breath sounds from her mother’s lips blow sweetly near her face.)
“The dim starlight has reasons even though dull. Making shade all the softer and colors not so bold. They waken the night so the dew can be seen. These sleeping reflections are lights for your dream. They swing into movement. They land as a glaze. The dim starlight becomes active for reasons they gave. To awaken what will. Your dimness unblind. Sweet dreams come to surface. Very similar to rhymes.”
(Mama, tell me more.)
“The night flowers catch the shadows and off into the night they lay down sleeping. Asleep there not because of dreams, but because they are together. In the darkened night the shadow’s colors know another. Nightened flowers enlightened by shadows that speak.”
(Are the flowers singing?)
“Yes, my dear. The music is mind altering, a piece of paper unravels, all the colors inside turning the other way. Addressing the sounds. Becoming muffled, one into another. Another into one. The distance between edges obscure. Powdered pastels form waves. Rising airs reaching heaven from the music.”
(Mama, tell me what you dreamt.)
”It was this diagonal dream on a bike. On the ground sleeping soundly. Nothing like being held in a will of its own making. The bike wheels rolling into a Hempstead field gathering up little bits of earthen wear around their tread. I was meant to pick at this dirt and pack it into a pod as I dreamt of overgrown plants that would emerge. Spreading out their tendrils grasping the tree branches for leaves to hold onto. Roots growing deeply into the earth awaiting the watery raindrops’ arrival to quench their thirst. A dreamer’s paradise to watch as I biked through this web of nature. An enlargement of what; I wondered...as always my dreams reveal. Or perhaps the gusty wayward air is a channel to turn on. A tv to look into. A walking girl on her way to see why she is an anemometer. Put into the picture to measure exactly how much wind is needed to open more petals. I want more petals to open up. To bloom. To fill the air with perfume. I want the gusty wayward air to do that so everyone can wear a flower. High styled or plain. Peace babies spreading love. Always in my mind this golden yellow party of flowers blowing in a field close to the ocean. A vest for the earth and I. Dance little ones into my heart.
(Mama, were you really there in your dream, can I go, too?)
“Yes, my darling little girl, one day you will see the ocean’s waves form eyes of blue. Caresses fashioned by the skies above. Light voiced into shades unbeknownst to man. He touches though their worth and knows the blue bounty of this vision. The waves, the skies forever his hope. His shoe fell off and he left it there as a footprint. Of all the places he traveled and all the dust he moved. All the trampled people he saw. Every sock he wore from drawers that gentle hands had placed within to keep him warm. His footprint a container of time his shoe kept safe. It remains for you.”
your body wouldn't stop
running riverine, attempting
to find its vanishing point.
every curve meant less,
the more it stretched into
the horizon, hugging the future;
rain fell, as if for the first time,
in an ADHD of concentrations,
showering you like a young romantic
with his mostly empty desires.
Koheleth admonishes us about
the virtues of "the moment";
how the whirlpool in our eyes are
dancefloor in the next, where
my ghosts meet yours, abrazo cerrado,
to re-interpret the danse macabre.
a love letter explains, eternity is easy;
every season, the rest of your life, the fall.
city of the almost dead
the streets flood with monitor light,
we window shop for shade in old malls;
recruiting office replace origami studio,
cranes made from unheard whispers;
the sound of change, our jangling jingoism.
confessions maimed into fortunes,
the parishioners' whitewashed tongues are
pulled from candied teeth, only tell lies;
debating platters that could name necropolises,
each of us sees the others as sitting ducks.
on a day where the weather goes skinny dipping,
the President melts into a pool of camera lenses;
gasping, oxygen becomes the most scalped gas,
armed to the gills with gills, deadpan: "nice shot".
You’re Not a Martyr, You’ve Just Got the Complex
Fair Narcissa,
all your beauty could not be contained
in the shallow pools you peered into.
You saw your darkness beneath the surface,
called it a new name in your folly.
You washed yourself clean with filth,
dubbed yourself baptized and saved,
without ever living the grace you preached.
Hypocrite Narcissa,
the fruits of this world could never be enough
for you.
You plucked from giving trees on endless loop,
blaming nature once you'd taken too much
instead of your greedy hands.
Cowardly Narcissa,
praying endlessly for ascension,
begging to escape a world you could not control.
You sought peace in the chaos you caused,
blamed it when you couldn't sleep,
blind to your own misdeeds.
Foolish Narcissa,
using faith as a torch.
Olympic ambrosia was never yours to taste,
yet you're still aimlessly searching.
No light graces the steps you take,
but you're too shrouded in darkness to see it.
February
Tell me who was the winner
of the first battle
and the year long war?
Was it you all along?
Or is your newfound freedom
shadowed in regret?
ejected at last into cold space
no longer tied to a home
I imagine you curled up and crying
without a roof to fix or a lawn to mow
It couldn't have been me
the love came up so short
the cherry was smaller than the pit
my tooth chipped on the stone
Imagine me crying when I
threw the diamond and gold away
Along with everything else
nothing works without you here
you could only fix machines
and clumsily break human beings
The house is empty
my heart is too
February reminds me of you
February
Those short moments
with cherry treats,
with music beats,
with sweet comments.
Those pretty times
when freedom rule,
when nothing's cruel,
when a bell chimes.
Those quiet parts
is the winner,
is the inner,
is sweet heart tarts.
Those angry yells
like a shadow,
like poison flow,
like dark, black wells.
February,
a color bold,
a grand love sold,
a bit more weary.
Sinnerman
Up late on a Monday
behind the machine reaching for
something to hold back the rolling teeth
that come out of the walls at this time
the madness of the hours
the tear shape teeth that roll down the walls
the heartbreak bleeds just easy enough to keep alive
and fall asleep eventually
listening to Nina Simone
or counting the breaths of my dog
or remembering the lost years on nights
like this when the graves are fresh
and your dead watch you from your heart.
