Treading my way through split-screen rooms
I trace the space that your heart left open
that night that you
you laid it all on me
who am i supposed to be?
i know that respect is more than a word
and feelings are real and fierce when they hurt
but you left
you left it all on me
who am i?
who am i supposed to be?
your pride is a fragile and delicate thing
swinging like a yoyo on the end of a string
have you ever wondered who holds it?
a hand full of skill?
a hand full of fate?
a hand of the child that you’re left with today?
don’t you know
you
or do i have to remind
that night that you
you poured it all on me?
but these words are just that
and that’s all that they’ll be
since you are lost
you have lost sight of me.
i reach for the door, and i turn the lock tight.
all will be safe and alone here this night.
Lock In
I Have Not Lack For Melancholic Words
my heart leaks aqua, maroon, teal, blue and gold
crushing the ether of your petal dreams
as the lidless eyes unveil reality
constantly inviting you inwards
constantly pushing you away
as the moon overshadows the night
sensing a thing that is felt, not seen
a danger that is quick, steady and mortal
the unachievable goal, the unavoidable need,
the mandrake destiny and my mal-tempered fate
Fit Some Jazz in Them Jeans
Just start it like this
There was a brick opening
in a low, unencumbered wall
that’s it.
There were shades of grey and blue
where the lawn had a weeding disorder
oh what a shame that poor little thing
a grape vine, right over there- in the center
all i could find around it for years
were old dead bones
the man, they killed him here
the man, they killed him here
and i, i am just a poor farmers wife
and this was our farm
and this was your war
what are you fighting for?
i don’t even know what to say.
please, please let me be on my own for a while.
Bloodlines
I am the moon
pale glitter smirking in the blackened sky
I am the lion’s daughter- Ponce proud and strong
I am from the cacique’s land, mountain rugged Humacao
Descended from an island where women picked up the pieces
of the men who were slain- before the ‘good people’
strong women left behind to survive
I am the Taina, the good people of the good land
I am the pale faced killer, land thirsty and blood hungry
I am trapped in the bowels of the ship
crying out, crying out, crying out!
An Orphan was Found
An orphan was found in an old blue casket
there was nothing else and no one else around
now erase your memory now erase your memory
take off the solid wooden floor
and the popcorn white ceilings
and the beige-grey walls
there was nothing else and no one else around
no room no time no space to die
There, at the rim the orphan was found
Reading sadly strung lullabyes
in a far off waving voice
that shuttered it’s ears at the reflection of itself
but tinkered on cautiously
tone after tone
in this dark non room
for a world we call eternity
no space to die
no space to die
Are You Sleeping [Brother John]?
Let it be said that I am not afraid of the cliche
if there is anything we forbid ourselves out of fear
then we have already succumbed to that dreaded culture
which every artist aspires to overcome
and not only to overcome, but to analyze, to categorize
flagging the items needing change
inventing new ways to view old problems
and ushering individuals into an awareness of their role
in a societal machine that would dull their senses,
of course, only for their own good.
That is not to say that I don’t forbid myself some things,
at first out of child-like obedience and reluctance to displease-
for the higher societal powers over us are mighty-
but later after much testing and thought
while allowing myself to become as separated from ‘normal’ society
as I could physically and reasonably dare to be,
I have banned certain things upon moral principles
which I do not impose upon you as many do
because morals must be found when one is ready to understand
or else human nature will rebel and overthrow what is, in our minds,
a needless and cruel restriction.
Poetry is a necessity for my soul
whether sleeping or awake the words pour forth
and all may see them or none at all.
You may love them, you may hate them,
you may see how they could improve.
You are entitled to your opinions,
to your scathing logic and conformity,
to your lack of time to fully absorb,
to your unwillingness to comprehend.
I have heard all of your negativity before,
and far more, your silences
which lie like cold corpses on the gurneys of my mind.
If there be a single one to mirror my words,
a spark of soul who, being an artist, lives the world
as one living through eyes unseen
come, dear friend, and lend me your hand.
Surely we are two lonely souls spinning in a media-numbed sea.
Yet I know it is not just you,
and I know it is not just me.
There are more of us out there, somewhere
hiding from mediocrity.
The First Dream
We were trapped in an enormous Gothic sacred structure. Perhaps it was a cathedral. Perhaps it was a temple. I heard her indignation buzzing off the walls. That is not poetry. It urged a strength in myself to rise, pulling effortless words in defense of the craft.
Poetry can be beautiful.
Poetry can be ugly.
It is a new perspective on the forgotten;
it opens your awareness,
rescuing you from the dust of the mundane.
You cannot contain this thing
in your laws and standards of expectation.
My poetry can be metered
it can be blank.
Sometimes the meaning lies not in the words
but in the sounds of the words,
in the hidden melody pushing the words forward.
Poetry does not need to be stubborn.
I set my poetry free.
And that was the first dream.
Oh Look, It’s Time for Breakfast!
wisps of your voice
fall like traces of a surrendered dawn
in circles around my feet
whispering the wind
at a moribund hiatus -
cease.
tactile slither
chest, voice, throat
high-strung virulent pause
you roll like slits in my eyes
watching, turning, peering again.
who is your green fixation?
none can ever tell…
Quatrain
you steal the silver linings
and stretch them all over the skies
til they melt in deep droplets
dancing on my face
Birth
trapped inside glass walls
lost in sensory illusions
hidden in the bell curve
of my teleological fate
a tiny morphine head
scrunches its hazel eyes
to peer into my mirror soul.
