I struggle with the code And living by morals That I chose by birth
My face is worn by a million men With a mouth that speaks for a multitude Each word must be beaded On a narrow thread
I struggle with the code Because it is so much bigger than I And means more than my single life It isn’t a burden But an honor I do not deserve
The question isn’t how Because my brothers dig paths In the world my sisters birthed From ancient, immortal loins Where a home awaits Vacant When I come home I will no longer struggle
Cobblestone and brickwork from an alleyway emerged At an intersection where two narrow roads converged Opening a pathway to a seldom traveled street This is the location where I’d like for us to meet
Covered by a shadow while the sun hangs in the sky Still revealing slowly floating clouds that pass on by Guided by the pitter-patter of our anxious feet This is the location where I’d like for us to meet
While the air is incensed by the dining lying near And the crowds are over leaving open walkways clear Bring your happy laughter and a smile for me to greet This is the location where I’d like for us to meet
Long before the hour comes to take you far away While you travel distant and I’m forced by fate to stay Hidden from the beating of the waning Summer heat This is the location where I’d like for us to meet
He didn’t make it far before he realized he had forgotten his wallet but he already decided it wasn’t worth continuing on. However, he wasn’t ready to accept the defeat. He wouldn’t continue, but he wouldn’t return. Nearby was a park and he decided that was where he wanted to go all along. It was a short walk. About as far as it would have been to return home. He was now twice as far as he was. His brow furled trying to keep both sun and sweat from his eyes. It wasn’t that warm, but frustration made everything more intense. He certainly wanted the park to help provide the peace he wasn’t willing to for himself. Every exasperated sigh was redefined as a mindful breath. He was exceptional at self-delusion.
In the park, there was a bench. On this bench, there was a squirrel and nothing else. For whatever reason, he decided that this squirrel needed to be bothered. He walked to the bench as if he wanted to sit next to the squirrel, but really he knew he was definitely going to disturb its peace. On approach, a tail twitch. Two steps, standing alert. Three steps further, a retreat away from the bench into a tree. As the squirrel jolted the man smiled. He decided this was his favorite bench for the day as he sat down. This time the sigh wasn’t a sigh, it was actually a mindful breath. His eyes closed and he allowed the warm sun shards breaking through the tree canopy to shower him with solar massage. He hadn’t forgotten that this wasn’t where he was really planning on going, but he acted like it. His smirk was convincing.
An introduction is the act of colliding my ego against social expectation. Whichever is most brittle determines how awkward I feel when I walk away. Oft times I simply imagine the outcome through vivid prognostication, just long enough for others to leave for some other, braver interest. If I can experience abandonment before there’s even a salutation I meet with it less violently even if more frequently. After all, I’d rather be on the wrong side of a good event than under the spotlight of catastrophe. Those who stretch out their neck invite nooses. They’ve finally gone. Just one more semester left of hiding behind my glasses.
It’s ironic, when asked to recall my family’s voice my first thought is a threat to literally put words in my head. My great-aunt was a collector of knick-knacks and curios, and was also my default care-taker while my mother worked. Her West Indian and Panamanian heritage was always betrayed by her voice, her idioms. She was caring of us, but protective of her collections, “An’ if you break it, I’ll cut your initials into your forehead with the broken pieces. I’ll do like so…” She continued to mime the action I am relieved never came to pass despite the stunning number of pots and vases I destroyed in careless play.
That I never really listened to my family never occurred to me before. That my memories of their voices are a din of sounds, not language. And their words are divorced from the audible to my recollection. Mannerisms and attitudes stay in well preserved packets of cognition, but their phrases are not words to me. Those phrases are meanings, themes, shadows of a trope. “You have more luck than sense.” They have told me. Maybe this is what they saw. Senses dulled to my inheritance of wisdoms and just enough luck to survive without it.
Billowing Earth and voluptuous hill Sonorous hum of the deep valley creek Cavernous mouth that no supper could fill Billowing Earth and voluptuous hill Dusk comes approaching, celestial will Afternoon sun but her shine cannot peak Billowing Earth and voluptuous hill Sonorous hum of the deep valley creek
I always remember to stretch in the morning. In a therapy session, I was once asked why I looked so uncomfortable. I replied that it was because I was in a therapy session. The therapist told me to relax, and for the first time in my life I was prompted to stretch. “Never be too afraid of formality to give yourself the right to be comfortable,” he continued. On that day and in that moment I first explored exploring myself. Once I felt my comfort was valid, I could no longer accept not adjusting in my situation. Once I twisted my back in relief, contorting my perspective to new angles became my default. Once my arms stretched into infinity, how could I cease to fill the expanding universe with my expanding self?
Conversations hung in the air suspended on rising warmth from an active street Billowing syllables soup into a moist ether A spark of light cuts the chamber mist as Isabel thumb-flicked her jacket’s button As the garment glid from her shoulders She felt immediately cooled Only to be cloaked again with surrounding voices Satin red interior hidden by dark blue outer fabric folded over her arm Stately well read interior narrative replacing it from the dark, blue, and droll faces they escape from
My love is a confection mixed with bitter herbs Tubes of sour lemon icing, disguised in pink and blue Milk white filling leaks from parted lips again Half baked emotions don’t contain the recipe flavors Glowing bright, my oven sits with vacant racks The timer hasn’t yet called my attention Yet unjust desserts are served to Gordon, Judy, and the rest While the iced tops make it look appetizing Cold, sour, and bitter argon colored undone tarts
