O My Anthurium! Sweet red Anthurium!
Came to my life, gorgeous and adorable
Thou give me a new direction
For a future we’ll share on.

O My Anthurium! Sweet red anthurium!
Taught me not to count the time left
But the treasured moments
Of happiness thy spent together.

O My Anthurium! Sweet red Anthurium!
Without thee what life would be?
Thy heart is sober
Thy life is over.

I once was told
In Broooklyn New York
I had a lackadaisical attitude.
It was the first time I was hearing
That whimsical adjective !
So lackadaisical I was !
Looked like an illness
The way they said it
It seemed I could contaminate.
So I stopped a few seconds to think  and dissect the word
Lackadaisical
I lacked a daisy somewhere !
Sounded like I lacked a fuse in my brain !
Next thing I know I was checking the word
In my reminiscences of the Oxford English Dictionary
Or may be it was Webster's
And  it said in black and white ferns I lacked purpose
I wasn't properly lazy, I just lacked directions
I lacked enthusiasm, stamina
I was devoid of zest
I was blasé
Insouciant
Careless.
Translated into  more French I was nonchalant and better said
Jemenfoutiste.
It was during an encounter group
And they threw that lackadaisical attitude ******* to my face
And guess what i did ?!
I just kept on smiling
Jemenfoutiste to the extreme.
And they kept saying
See what I mean, you 're so ******* lackadaisical , man !
You're so pathetic !  You're so apathetic !
It was Winter in America like Gil Scott-Heron would say
And it felt so good, so warm,
As far as I could see,
To be called lackadaisical
And not laconical.
I not only lacked a daisy
I lacked a bunch of tropical flowers indeed !
Like bouganvillea, orchid or hibiscus
Anthurium, jasmine or bromeliad
I lacked sun and sea
Strange as it was
Even though I was near Atlantic Avenue, Coney Island
So I was lackaseacal and lackasuncal
But what I didn't lack was ants in my pants
And until today they make me dance
My forever lackadaisical dance.

many repeat bloom
mistake to overwater
anthurium plant

I spent lots of minutes and a deep cup of coffee
with your sister, warding off the rain
and realizing that it was easier to acknowledge
that you've become someone I never met,
who wouldn't call me babesio and give me an Anthurium for Valentines Day
because they were sold out of Cactus's,
I decided it was easier to call you a loser
and laugh at how everything isn't working out;
Life's not what it should have been
for you or us
and nodding along when your sister says
'you're better than him, he'll figure it out'
because it was much easier than acknowledging
that I still only want to wrap you up in a hug
spend all day doing nothing together
and talk about all the grand things we might do someday

I'm okay
Really, I'm fine
But you're not
And that hurts me more than you will ever know

The light from the end of eternity
Comes in through the window glass
Sits on the sill with the red Anthurium
In the stenciled orange Waterford vase
Centuries.down.and.Decades.done.
From the grassy light of the Lyceum.

If the sun were to choose where to die,
It would falter over Pompeii,
And lie like a broken godhead
Or lava poured into the pottery cups of
The open-skied houses.

I woke up late this morning, my phone was dead. I guess I never plugged it in, I found it buried under my pillow (erah!). I barely had time for anything, just managing to cover the basics as the “Whoop” sound signaled my first virtual classroom opening. A pop-up announced that the class would be recorded and available later. “Yessss!” I thought, as I put in my airpods.

My room is surprisingly full of houseplants. There’s a ponytail palm, an anthurium and philodendrons sending down tendrils of heart-shaped leaves from shelves and tables. I drew open my curtains and the room bloomed, morning sunny. It was 22° but my windows are almost always cracked open to let in some real air.

I’m dressed in an unstylish, black school hoodie, short pajama pants, long socks and fluffy, pink slippers for my virtual class. My still-wet hair looked attractively mop-like. I began brushing it out while arranging the colored gel-pens and highlighters I use to take notes.

Was I ever starving, but I could only imagine breakfast. Ever notice how the sun looks like a giant egg-yolk? At least my Keurig was on the job - burping, whirring and dripping like a malfunctioning steam engine as it rendered lifesaving French Vanilla coffee that smelled like caffeinated heaven.

As the professor started talking about the syllabus, outlining the types of problems we’ll be working on this semester and reminding us of things we learned in our intro to econ class, a teaching assistant, in another window, asked us to press the roll-call icon and reminded us we had a paper due (this is why we read our syllabus, people). Then the assistant's window became a countdown timer showing what remained of the ten minutes we’d been given to upload the first-day’s homework.

Twenty minutes into the class, I was combed out and ponytailed, coffeed-up and positively vibrating with pleasure - I LOVE this stuff - strategies, actions, outcomes and payoffs. Student life is unnatural, stressful and myopic - but it can be thrilling too.

There was a knock on my door frame (the door to my room is almost always open), and one of my roommates, Sunny, was there. “Morning, Princess Anesthesia,” she said, teasing me about over-sleeping.

I pointed to my pink-M1-iMac screen, to indicate I was in class and she tossed me a bag. I knew, at once, that it was breakfast from the cafeteria. “I love you,” I mouthed, before turning back to the screen.

Spring Semester has begun.

I would write, speak and sing

all of dreams

and their hold,

and their shouts

in a quiet surrounding.

I would write, speak and sing

all of flowers;

anthurium, and its gentle flame.

I would write, speak and sing

all of swords, and their unsheathing,

all of wounds, and how I'd heal.

everything.

a love letter from being small and being on the floor: the space is warm and monumental and safe.  

who doesn't value floor time?  

pine box creaks with raindrop footfalls, warping windfall feeds deer amidst haunting gardens like chipped ancient acrylic beads muddled with dirt, dusty glitter, stories playing make believe planted below thick tangled roots of suburban grass.  
grow older, shade expands.  mosses reclaim urban forest floor, the ground is delightful like down.  the children can run around like intended, no white lace sunday stockings folded down.  the kitchen is finally cool, 30 years after pregnancy.
wait for spring.  take caution with entanglement outside of yourself.  
the next dinner where i am not utterly alone yet surrounded by everyone I love.  gratitude is a basic human need.  the sky and earth hold us delicately, the mountains and forests, animals and plants are ancestors whom we have been silenced from teaching.

hold me close but not too; from the floor I see it - the oven light in the old gas stove that's broken more times than we can fix, leather car seats time entombed and petrified mildew, sedimentary factory line notes bitten by grease and rust.  the memory of every first, everlasting moments.  the narrow claustrophobic essence of spirits ooze from the wall, thread the building like a needle.  a large circulatory system forged in steel and fire.  they crack and sizzle, smudging the newly buffed floor.  all I smell is fresh white globular paint, all I want is to talk to my mother.  really talk.  not watch the news, the monitor, the phone.  start good habits, maintain and flourish.  how do I say how beautiful she is?

I fold amaryllis arms around me, a ****** bud retracting from early snap frost, ghosted, blind and blanketed in frozen crusts of half-melted snow.  a numb burn.  they circle around, a bed with no tenant.  a child surrounded by ladybugs, an open sky, a happy sun and warm foothills with anthurium-red tomatoes that dad loves so much to plant for the summer.  

closing my eyes.  repeating leaven hands spin in circles around clay, lavender buds and poppy seeds
piloting rabbit shelters, mustard leaves and paper airplanes, laundry fairies and scout who never left her side.
rose and violet lace the edges of knives, piercing light entering fingers like egg whites escaping a nuclear yolk.  sinewy and embryonic, baths of sound and light.  I've always loved baby's breath, so why does it petrify me?  Putting on my pack and not looking back, feeling the acidic rejection in my legs with the altitude, yet the mental bliss of absolute newfound joy in out-and-backtrails.  I will carry all of it, do not worry.  i've been taught to leave no trace.

I step on her forgiving body, like room temperature butter.  she is sand, curled inward, shifting and shimmering seaweed undulates in shallow water like lyrics.  my footprints erase with the swiftness of etch-a-sketch indecisiveness.
We remark how warm, how beautiful, how strange it is to be here, but have no mark whatsoever.  occupy residency in a mind, one mind only.  to colonize a mind?  co-tenant a mind.  a tidal portal into whatever the ******* want, the coral, the anemones, the iridescent shells who pause and breathe "oooooh".  press fingerprints in the clay, dig in your nails, make the ocean yourself.  we have never been so utterly disconnected that the answer has always been intrinsic.  in the silt, the peat, the loam.  the roots take hold of mica, ore, the return of bridges and steel.  the calcified skeleton of ancient fish pressed in limestone.

shallow water, warmest on the surface, honeyed sand smooth like suede under toes and fingertips. sand crystals resist pressure of fists, clouds of nebulae, and dissolves to the ocean floor stardust.  my hand passes through hourglass Ophelia ashes, unyielding in a buoyant world.  every cell in my body sings home.

hair becomes slick and warm, not soft like seaweed.  the ocean inundates my mind, my mind is the ocean.  the sand is white cotton sheets.  

reaching the sand bar, the woman sleeping.  the tide approaches and recedes.  dizzying and safe in sunlight, photosynthesizing, breathing,

creating in a dream, slowly (or quickly) eroding away.