"mami" poems - Hello Poetry

From the ripple in a glass of water to the sonic boom of this internal Pompeii, the erosion of her etymology is the only sense of movement in her dilated, cave-pupil eyes, those two ghost towns spanning and encircling all the way back, stretched like an elastic blindfold past the moment the first brick was laid, perhaps her first vivid memory, or anecdote, or first word uttered in a Cuban slum. There are mountains of tumbleweed over the once thriving metropolis that expanded towards America; who threw herself into the architecture of seven pillars, borne from her land and minerals. Gone are the huts that housed her knowledge of basic motor skills. The women who once imagined Mami and Mima as her birth name now scrub off the graffiti of her excrement; they saw a swarm of pink moons the day she told the same story to every visitor that came their way, each day then becoming a missing surveillance tape, a sinkhole dismantling the awareness in her bones and stubborn will, until she became these dust-engulfed plains with a daughter and granddaughter archeological in their efforts to chase down the remains of a girl still breathing in those eyes from time to time. Every other ten-millionth blink of the eye rides the silhouette of a post-infant girl on the high tides of her quick visit, looking in horror as the nation of her life's nightmares, heartaches, broken promises, romances, spiritual breakthroughs, life-changing seconds drowns with morbid unity en cien fuegos, desperately attempting to assemble the remnants of her psyche past her cognitive bloodclots with the awareness of one who speaks no languages. Gone is the moment she first learned to feed her several children before the slip of sunset. One of seven pillars remain intact, the others long dismantled of their stick and straw infrastructures. One pillar remained, housed her own colony for nine months, and now both descendants travel the mind of their greatest influence with perplexed dedication, caustic humor the decoy for swarms of exhaustion and asphyxiation from the truthful atmosphere, reveling in the seconds of humanity lurking in an abandoned etymology.

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Jun 29, 2010

Jun 29, 2010 at 11:19 AM UTC

pedro-tejada

Erosion

From the ripple in a glass of water to the sonic boom of this internal Pompeii, the erosion of her etymology is the only sense of movement in her dilated, cave-pupil eyes, those two ghost towns spanning and encircling all the way back, stretched like an elastic blindfold past the moment the first brick was laid, perhaps her first vivid memory, or anecdote, or first word uttered in a Cuban slum. There are mountains of tumbleweed over the once thriving metropolis that expanded towards America; who threw herself into the architecture of seven pillars, borne from her land and minerals. Gone are the huts that housed her knowledge of basic motor skills. The women who once imagined Mami and Mima as her birth name now scrub off the graffiti of her excrement; they saw a swarm of pink moons the day she told the same story to every visitor that came their way, each day then becoming a missing surveillance tape, a sinkhole dismantling the awareness in her bones and stubborn will, until she became these dust-engulfed plains with a daughter and granddaughter archeological in their efforts to chase down the remains of a girl still breathing in those eyes from time to time. Every other ten-millionth blink of the eye rides the silhouette of a post-infant girl on the high tides of her quick visit, looking in horror as the nation of her life's nightmares, heartaches, broken promises, romances, spiritual breakthroughs, life-changing seconds drowns with morbid unity en cien fuegos, desperately attempting to assemble the remnants of her psyche past her cognitive bloodclots with the awareness of one who speaks no languages. Gone is the moment she first learned to feed her several children before the slip of sunset. One of seven pillars remain intact, the others long dismantled of their stick and straw infrastructures. One pillar remained, housed her own colony for nine months, and now both descendants travel the mind of their greatest influence with perplexed dedication, caustic humor the decoy for swarms of exhaustion and asphyxiation from the truthful atmosphere, reveling in the seconds of humanity lurking in an abandoned etymology.