"Envision yourself working in your own office."
"Envision yourself writing prescriptions for your patients."
"Envision yourself receiving a huge amount of money."
"Envision yours-"

She stopped mid-sentence and looked at me.

"I want you to dream high, my dear."

"Mom, I want to become a writer."
"No, being a doctor is better."
"But mom, I want to study literature, I want to publish b-"
"I said no."

Mom,
I know you wanted to become a doctor way back then  
but mom,
I have my own dreams too.

I can't imagine myself working inside hospitals
I can't imagine myself writing prescriptions
I can't imagine myself receiving a huge amount of money

but mom,

I can imagine myself working inside my own office,
I can imagine myself writing stories and not prescriptions
I can imagine myself starting with a small amount of money
but most of all,

I can imagine myself smiling despite these.

You told me to dream high,
and I'm sorry because
Mom, I failed.

I told myself not to dream high,
I told myself to dream deep.

I told myself to dream deep
and plant my dream in the deepest part of my heart
and make it grow -
that even my heart can attest that my dream was all I ever wanted.

My dream grew deeper
And the roots grew stronger

and I can tell,
Mom, I failed to dream high.

I identify as a poet,
a writer-poet
with a bent towards rhythms and patterns that are pleasing to the tongue
and to the ear.
On paper, the words are captured
with clear order and definite lines.
Spoken, the sounds wrap around and seep into ear canals,
flowing with less order, with greater freedom.

I identify as an artist,
a sound-artist,
with a bent towards the human voice, using words that worm their way into the human consciousness,
lodging there to make a new home,
free to morph into new installations with an art of their own making.

I identify as a poet.

Take your spot on the car lot
Vehicles shiny, polished, pressed, and folded
Folded into an ideal
Of how the family of four is transported
Of how the newlyweds expand their space
For her belly will expand
And the mister better break Miss Piggy
But the new cars don't know what's coming

War veterans, most certainly mini-vans
Can attest to the inevitable stink stains
Dog slobbers
Dirt
Or maybe that's a big pile of no. 02
Praying it's not baby Jack's (he may eat it)
Soccer practice transport
School bus escort
Spy mobile on baby's first date

Finally, the key and fob is passed
Passed ceremonially to the firstborn
Slayed the piggy again
This time for "I got a driving teen" insurance
Enough to save the firstborn in her new (to her) ride
Not enough to save the stop sign
Or the tree
Or poor Miss Jones's cat

But through some elbow grease
Quality marketing
And precious time
She's back on the lot in the "used" section
"But don't worry folks she is only lightly used"
Coos the dealer
One thing for sure
This van isn't miniature anymore

© 2018
Brandi Keaton

I love the sound of music a writer makes with the tip of his pen tapping on his empty glass.
It is how we still keep listening for music in silent moments.
It is how we still look for color in the darkness.
How we feel and care so much that we just might accidentally end up hopeful.

Have I left you all dry,
With a throat I’ve supplied
With the words of a poet
Who slips a poem inside.
Receiving your mail,
You handsome, dark male,
You sat in a chair
With woozy head as you stare.
Painting her body, prepared,
For you to meet her and share.
The words of her letter,
Forms the pierce of her stare,
Her full body in view,
She arches her back up for you.
Pulls up her long, cascading hair.
Moves to her rhythm,
You watch her, ensnared.
With her own ink she’s shared,
Dancing for you with words placed with care.
Your body feels weak, your head feels so light,
The pumping of blood supplies you with
Your want for the night.
You stare at her words, in the shape of her curves,
Her lips parting in pleasure, her eyes shooting arrows,
You study every seductive trace of a dot,
Coming to life in every detail she’s got,
She’s sent herself to you, you can smell her perfume,
Sprawled out on your page, she beckons to you.

the warmth from loneliness never felt so cold and cleansing
the warmth from two hearts colliding never felt so caressing
smiles stretch wider than the sky and i can’t help but swallow up the ones i hold dear
past, present and future all in my windshield and at the tips of my hair caressing the air i breathe
it’s always been preconceived
the pain the consciousness and the way we bleed
i’m a nomad in the desert feeling like an ostrich feather
freedom just isn’t as potent as it once was
and my dreams are a little more out of reach
but i’m still the wanderer whose ideas are clean
all the eyes that radiated love, i never forgot
because you showed me some kindness in places i forgot
the adventures that shook the time and the tunnels that gave us vision
i handled the concise misunderstanding that led to my downfall
it led me to a waterfall up north where the weather isn’t warm
saturation was gone but i still felt like i was home
i’m going home
i haven’t been there in a while and i’m sorry
please don’t worry about the nights i’ll never show
i’m co-existing with the night
he’s showing me the beauty that comes with walking alone
i made a home inside my bones
the address is tucked into the underlying of my sternum
i don’t apologize for the pictures i’ve burned and the bridges that ignited along with them
i live my best life when i’m desperate for a solution
we’re all just warriors of the unknown
traveling in a stream of nothingness trying to find out the art of everything that’s unknown
there is no home for the outgrown