death bursted into my room tonight
awakening a deep slumber
outstretching a cold boney hand
as if offering for me to go with him

I felt no fear or sadness
I have been waiting for death to greet me
I have admired him from afar
a lover who took no chance in courting me
Until he was ready to give me an embrace
That could be defined as loving and warm
but it was sinful and alluring

flickers of sparks in his eyes
ignited a fire in my soul
a passion that I had longed for
as my hand grabbed onto his
he pulled me close in the middle of the room

he began to dance to the tune
of our heartbeats synchronizing
a beautiful symphony rang love in our ears
craning his neck
he leaned in close
inhaling the shakiness of my breath
moonlight illuminated the poison dripping
from his puckering lips
as an offering to taste
what afterlife was

it held soft undertones of an earthy aftertaste
but an overpowering intoxicating sweetness left me hungry
for just one more dip
in his suicidal serenity

moving in one fluid motion
sweeping behind me
a boney hand placed on an unclothed forearm
slowly slid up my shoulder
as another arm was placed around both hips
he pressed himself tightly against me
icy breath grazed across my neck
making hairs stand up on my arms
as a moan escaped between closed lips
he whispered a seductive I love you
as he tucked hair behind my ear

the words I longed to hear
were met with a sharp knife
placed in open hands
and a crooked smile
spread across his face
it was at that moment
I came to the realization
to become his fully
my beautiful souls light
must burn out
to match his souls decayed state

no persuasion was needed
I longed for this moment
now the time was finally right
steady right hand raised
the elongated blade
"together forever..."
death breathlessly whispered
as a swift motion
punctured my abdomen
breath was taken out of my lungs
knees buckled
as death dropped me to the floor

tears of bliss flowed from my eyes
staining mascara streaks on flushed cheeks
I peer around the room to greet my lover
in another embrace with my final breaths
but im alone
left with a bloodied knife in hand
but this forbidden passion of a deaths dance
was only used to take ones soul
not give it the life it craved
laughing through the flood of tears
not even in death was I loved

(No puedo hablar la lengua.)
I cannot speak my father's native tongue.
(No puedo hablar suficiente...)
At least, not enough of it to get by.
(...no entiendo, lo siento.)
The body I inhabit feels like foreign territory.
(No lo se.)
My grasp of it ends here.

I. OTRA VIDA

Dia de san valentin, 2000: mi padre aprendió inglés por amor; voló a través del mar Mediterráneo. Él tiene miedo de los sonidos cuando trata de hablar. Pero él lo intenta. Él habla casi perfectamente -- mientras, estoy teniendo una conversación uno-a-uno con Google. Es vergonzoso.

I recall two or three trips, max. There's a blend of urban and natural that's a haven for the eye -- the buildings themselves are seduced by the sun; divine blends of amber, tawny, white. Classically Romantic. That nighttime humidity fogs up your lungs and makes it feel like a hug. There was a time when we were poised to move back there - and in Dad's case, another, nearly leaving without any desire to take me with him.

My makeshift home is built upon stereotypes: orange trees, olive oil, generous glasses of vino. Pienso qué un otra vida where I'm stood on the beach at dusk, with heavy-lidded eyes and ears attuned to cicadas and rolling waves. This is narcissistic lust for the woman I could've been - she is all smiles, bilingual, peace embodied. Those are the nights when I'm not careful: she leaves my bed by morning.

II. ESTA VIDA

To mourn the "what ifs" shows a lack of gratitude for what is, and god, what luck! For inglés to be the second most-spoken language, de-facto "centre of the universe"! To migrate most anywhere and get by; for the Western world to be coerced into Anglophonic bliss since tourism makes their ends meet!

On a holiday, I clam up ordering "una batista fresa" and get a taste of how my father feels. José Francisco: his colleagues call him Frank, in the same way I shun my legal surname because a Spanish 'LL' is too hard for others to grasp. I reek of privilege - post-post-Franco, white European, playing with my non-language behind closed doors. There's private delight in a rolled 'r': momentarily, I'm local, not a mere faux-foreigner appropriating my own heritage. Ironic - he tries to be "less immigrant" whilst I've got the fortune of trying to be more.

I was born into a universe of possibilities. A million options feel like fate -- screenwriter, Oxford grad, Spanish barmaid-or-waitress-or-I'll-take-whatever -- each unchased path is a reminder that, somehow, I'm choosing wrong. I've never perceived myself as small (ex-tall child, "ex"-chubby kid with a head outstretching the clouds, first of the eleven-year-olds to grow **** and got gawped at like I'd grown an extra nostril). Outside this hall of mirrors, I am tiny -- too small to have this many dreams -- manifesting as terror-borne paralysis because I want to do more than I'm built for. Solution: aim smaller or grow up.

yet even though i count only five members,
i still play with my moustache and beard
like an organism of eight extensions,
thus i weave and think simultaneously,
in this great cobweb of silence:
my hand the spider, my mouth the cobweb...
how pretty the interaction to exact
the daffodil a caleigh with the thistle in parisian persian.

i am as unsavoury in my buds
of the tongue as i might calypso a pineapple for pink
in the new dictionary stating pink defines punk!
i am unsavoury in by tastes
like trans-muscle in its ivory enclosure,
as i am outstretching my hand
to “photograph” the rain
with my hand to get freckles and knitting patterns of aqua gnats,
as i am to say:
a. you dittoed that word without using it prior,
so why exploit such usage in the first place?!
and...
b. it made more sense to itch with rain
than describe drunk & twitching spiders doing a cancan dance
in the four necessary extremes of  21st century morse encoding
with emoticons: s.o.s. = octopus :) reverse :) pianist fake :(.
elevator going up! (this is the scottish parliament,
after all)
shiksh floor...
elevator going down...
ground floor...
that’s just ******* boring...
how about you climb the shcaffold
and drop chimney bricks onto prince’s st. (edinburgh) drunk, eh?!
well i did that, actually... who’s up for a sarcastic tying the knot
and reining in a horse?
no one? oh oops twos a buckle with hoofs for teeth
as the same cement... no, sorry... it’s called *enamel;
say hi for me to ben and nick harper in this silence of typing ‘
oh i thought (i.e. susan).
**** me, the comma is on the ceiling, who’s going to measure
the time width of that one for exacted humour?!
here's one: when sean connie is on the screen,
you never shush the audience...
unless you get a shish kebab prior... and a shanty town
dr. feelgood - repairs project in motion...
shanty town project thumbs up good to go!
dr. strangelove - bomb bomb bomb!
dr. feelgood - shanty town isn't a hiroshima.
dr. strangelove - bomb bomb bomb, bomb!
dr. feelgood - a nuke on a geographic peanut?!
dr. strangelove - bomb bomb bomb burning bush in the taj mahal urn!
edinburgh is the new paris! edinburgh is the new paris!
yo yodeling the york... new town... virginia...
i'll export revolutionary france via scotland with edible 'burp'
new paris! bon voyage the october-haggis...
settle us among the apache with blood ***** and gain
testifying the hog's intestines as worthy digestion!

[[I found this somewhere the other day while I was looking through some stuff.  It is more of just an excerpt than a poem, but I gave it a poetic structure to make it easier on the eyes.]]


I am sitting in this ugly, worn out chair.  It is old, and there are obvious signs that it has been used and used again.  It is simply a seat in which I can rest my body after a hard day of work.  The carpet that this sofa-type-chair rests on is stained and discolored and hardly fitted for the room.  It doesn't even stretch from one wall to the other.  

Resting on my antique night stand is one of two vintage looking speakers that I stumbled across while ravaging through a dumpster behind the Goodwill.  [There's good **** in there:)  You should try it!].  

On the walls are old, used posters that I have had for years.  They are cleverly placed to cover glow-paint graffiti that the last tenant left behind.  Some of them have obvious sun damage, and a few of them are tattered and ripped.  

The bedroom suit is antique and has limped in here after being beaten and bruised since the early years of my childhood.

There are no tokens of wealth here, but there are obvious signs of hard work and many attempts to make the atmosphere as comfortable as possible for myself or whomever chooses to enter my humble dwelling. This is far from the place I dream to be, but I have always been able to make it my own.  This is my safe-haven, and for now, it is where I lay my head.

Don't get me wrong, I love spending my time here.  It isn't much, but I'm thankful for what I have.  I spend some of my most enjoyable time here.  If the walls could talk, you'd be enthralled and perplexed by what they would tell you.  Maybe sometimes you would even be disgusted ;)

I am free here, but there are still so many elements that can intrude from outside these four walls.  The boundaries can be broken by anyone who decides to turn the **** and give the aged, wooden door a little shove.  

I feel so mortal here.  
There are so many worldly implements.

It is much too humanistic and real for me.  It is just too hard to grasp the concreteness of things here.

There is a place where I like to go that I enjoy most of all.  I could never bring you here, but I can describe it to the best of my ability.

The inner workings of this place are not too solid.  the elements are much more fluid.  They can change their form beyond your will.  

I have been visiting this place for a long time;  as far back as my mind will take me, but I still haven't worn out my welcome because this place is just for me.  The temperature is neither too hot nor is it too cold.

The land here is more vast than the greatest plains in the world, but I have trampled on every square inch.

The ocean is deeper than the Earth itself, but I have swam the great blue depths.  

The sky stretches on and on beyond all Earthly possibilities, but I can reach to the clouds by just outstretching my arms.

The mountains reach to the stars and beyond, but I can trudge to the peak and slide all the way back to the bottom in the blink of an eye.

There are more people in this place than have ever existed since the beginning of time, but I have spoken a lifetime worth of deep thought with each and every one of them.

I pated the silver linings on every single cloud and tossed them up into the sky one-by-one.

I gave names to each and every plant and animal.

I paved all of the roads and built every structure without a single tool.

I created the entire world here.  This place holds my every want, need and desire.  It is my kingdom.  I can dream any dream.  Illusions become real at your desire, and everything that you ever believed was impossible suddenly lies within your reach.

Nothing can take over my will and break me down on these journeys throughout the eternal vastness of my mind.

As I leave my mind once again, I take a stroll back to this earthly place.  I find myself still encompassed by the staleness and placidity of this place.  I'm still here slumped in my aged, worn out, sofa-type-chair on its stained and discolored carpet that is still hardly fitted for the room.  It is still a pleasant atmosphere, but if I decide that I want to leave this place, I can take flight back to my immense kingdom and conquer the skies.  I can go as far as I want without ever moving a limb.

The best part about it is that you can never follow me here...

There is probably some place on this earth that is dear to you.  You most likely long to visit this place, and even find yourself there time after time, but there is only one place you can go no matter what is going on around you.  This place is not of this world, and you would never find it simply by just looking.  

Find a place with your own tattered, worn out sofa-type-chair.  Sit down and close both eyes.  No open your third eye, take flight, and start building your kingdom.

It seems places I call home are in all different spaces
The placement is unjust, miserable in all cases
Dates I can't remember, they go by so fast
The last place I came from I lost with a crash
It all gets confusing when motives aren't clear
Far-heart intentions, my mind commandeers
Actions are pointless if my love wanders long
Gone forever searching to fit where I belong
There's nowhere for me, especially where I am
Everyday I give more *****, but less of a ****.
I hate being a product of a ****** up culture
My ***** of a life sends me back as I approach her
I hate those surrounding, surrounded by those that hate
Their ****** up decisions and distorted mind states
Opinions, I guess, from heads in the sand
When I'm in the clouds, I'm outstretching my hand
I swear if I leave, I won't ever come back
Homesick feelings are something I lack
Rather constant impulses of allowing my mind to roam
Missing love of my heart where in my heart is home

I'm not afraid of the dark--
I'm afraid of the light,
that stealthy insight that looms overhead and slowly
envelopes my mind:
equal parts consolation and condemnation
of the decisions I've made and the dreams I've deferred
until tomorrow,
always tomorrow.

I can't sleep till midnight
because my mind insists on activity;
my whole being validated by three lines,
or three words,
whatever I write I become; I see.

What would you say
if I told you I count to twenty,
three times in a row after I hit snooze five times,
that I lie in bed, ruminating my failures
and the impending day,
resolute and domineering,
like an aged, hardened war general
who refuses to answer to, "I will not, sir;
I cannot do that, even for you,
or my country...sweet land of tyranny."

I think I find some meaning
and solace
in the minutes that beckon to morning
and hold fast to inevitable recycling of failure come freedom--
for, we are no longer chained by our fears when we forget
perfection.

I'll never reach that star;
I have no ladder that steep,
or hands that far reach,
outstretching past my own soiled skin--

tears that bleed.

I look at my friend,
and sadness drops an anchor on that heart,
I'm sure it's hoping to port here,
as tears well in her eyes again,
I ask "are you alright lady?"
an you probably,
know the answer was NO.

( My fur baby,
or as I believe-
a spirit animal,
my familiar -
but not for dark witchcraft,
ha, no,
this is just...a ....story ....yeah, a story,
about my Tanley cat )


Cooking dinner oh boy, meatloaf-
chorizo sausage, pork an beef,
and I am distracted in every way,
I refuse to make something that's not,
delicious an with the right ingredients,
anything is possible,
now exhasted and sipping wine-
why he just climbed right up my leg!
"Ouch guy!" as I pull him off my jeans,
looking over at her,
still emotional,
while trying not to seem rude,
"he's so strange"  I chuckle warmly,
I pat his sweet furry head,
and shake my finger at him-
no no darling kitty,
go wait there in your bed.

She forces some kind of smile,
then I look at his eyes,
and he just looks -confused.

I pat his sweet little head again,
rub his chin and pick him up,
I'm just too busy with nightly chores,
to listen to his heart-
at present,
so I walk over to Melissa,
and rub a feeling hand over her back,
trying any words of reason,
but reasoning with a tumultuous heart,
is sometimes impossible,
I know, from experience sigh
I know little Tanley cat
you want to help and I'm sure we will,
I feel her an his angst.

A half hour later, or so-
as my routine feet amble across,
the old an quite cold hardwood floor,
over to a chair against the wall,
where Melissa and the roommate Tom sits
at the bar still playing cards,
a pleasantly surprising game of rummy
though she still can't see in that tunnel,
I make my way,
over to a chair and sit -
at looooong last,

Ahhhhhh....a very deep breath
as eyes close fractionally,
and I sigh deeply for,
taking a well deserved pause,
as my latest invention bubbles,
eagerly in the oven -
as I have still to feed everyone,
Lil Tanley comes to my feet with an offer,
I look down and nod for him,
to come up
and he gladly obliges.

Now I love animals,
I always have,
but I've had few in my adult life,
mostly as a child or teenager as,
my living pods didn't allow,
for such wonderful critters,
smiles

I have always thought myself,
to be- somewhat at least,
awake to my life maybe,
but I suppose,
awake doesn't always,
equate to being aware,
and awareness is the thing,
that taught my heart to share.

While life being such as it is,
I didn't have many,
opportunities to learn
much worldly wisdom
other than what we knew-  
these little furry spiritual souls
are already enlightened,
gratitude is what I think they hope to earn,
soft and sweet sometimes,
always independent,
little tiny furry sentient beings maybe,
well sounds crazy, I dig,
but I think so anyway-
an here's only part of why.

Tanley had been waiting,
an meanwhile-
we had considered adoption,
somewhat early,
for what we thought,
so shortly after the death of Spanky,
my first really close spirit animal,
the others I hadn't allowed
for time or space,
some touched my heart- but Tantan?
he's the manman,
he knows his special place,
he is a pure heart-
that I know well,
he attached himself with a needle
and thread to mine,
maybe an ancient spell was cast,
not a bad one,
if so- this is all good,
I have a warm relationship with my spirit guides these days-
didn't always understand
that part to well,
I'm not "psychic" -
maybe sensitive and very easily tuned in-
my empathetic antennas going off,

An let me again stress,
this cat is very special,
chosen for us,
I am certain of it,
and he is just so unique-
an I know I know,
like every mom says,
and it's not completely -
understood either,
by anyone -
well he is cute and soft,
but everyone,
an I mean EV-er-Y-OnE,
comments on his "beauty"
- drawn in moth to flame like,
I have seen many adult lost-
totally mesmerized
four at once for over an hour,
all participating in his fun.

He is like a newborn gift,
just weeks young he came-
not now but 5 months old,
infusing all our hearts with simple joy,
he helped us bear the Winter's cold,
from the amazing connection,
we ALL so obviously share,
an Lil Tanley he so wants to care,

Now my Tanley cat looked at me again,
then her, though this time -
persistent like,
in parroted movements,
repeating his message
though I am still resistant, apparently,
until the emergency emotional bulletin,
comes through and BINGO-

Oh, now I get it boy!
Then suddenly I realized,
he wants to comfort and to help her!

Alright go ahead I hearten his request,
as he is hesitating though not wavering,
patiently, and sweetly waiting,
for her soon acknowledgement,
I say to them all-
" He wants to help, just look"
and I pat him again,
"go on now" he looks again,
at all parties, inquisitively,
she looks at him
all her insecurities prominent,
but softly her heart eases -
he stretches from my knee,
to her upper arm,
her comfort means he pleases,
outstretching paw like feelers of hope.

She smiles a teary thanks,
silently in her head,.
I can hear it with my heart,
and **** it all to hell sometimes,
that hearing -
some parts of a heart
you rather not know,
but his I listen to gladly,
and I see him rock,
back and forth like an,
Olympian runner trying to save,
someone and maybe who knows,
perhaps we lived in another life,
together I wonder,

Maybe somewhere in beautiful,
and ancient Greece together,
as he always does this just before,
he jumps, one, two - up we go,
onto her left shoulder and finally,
he finds his warm perch.

Ever since first night we got him,
just 8 new weeks old -
too soon I know -
but my poor heart wanted him,
to be with his family which is us,
he desperately needed to find his home,
still big for his age and not sad,
well adjusted was this furry strange,
and wonderful little misfit,
the one the other lady didn't want
and not suffering his momma's loss,
too awful bad at least.

Tanley cat went straight to his employment,
taking very seriously his task,
with such concerted effort,
it's not as if I ask,
as he willingly and unselfishly performs,
a dazzling balancing act
- a feat of his desperation to stop,
sadness and his ugly friend depression,
as he is purring,  
and trying to groom her lovely hair.

He burrows his head into her hair,
bunting her sweetly,
showing he's in love,
giving it his best effort,
looking at me for approval,
he has every bit of it,
and all of the attention,

A warm smile finally breaks the spell,
my heart feels that anchor weight lift
in all our amusement,
as  he burrows into her neck,
looking for some small reward,
for that solace gifted,
as she gratefully giggles a tiny bit.
and a wee little light seeps in,
through a teenie hopeful crack,
in sweet tired dark sad eyes
I see a glimmer of hope.

Ma Cherie © 2017

Outside cars line up ticketed
Rickety in a rusty mist of San Francisco fog
High heel and blonde echoing up to my window.
The traffic is light
The stars are distant and bright
A night in present to be remembered falsely
We take many things for granted

A laugh bounds against the high wall of this city's illusion
Many smiles, many grins, along with many ruins
I thought we were being bombed today
Work between my fingers the lights flickered above me
And I thought, "This is the day I die, and I die alone."

Around these corner alleyways the meter maids purr
Transcending human emotion ordered by rules & safety
The wind feels no guilt when it destroys
The Earth, ocean, and fire neither
These elementals, they play with us like pawn pieces
We can only bow and obey

At noon the abstract grip their baskets
Made of pencil lead, plastic, and porcelain
Hours pass and the power they wished for
Slips through their shaking, cracked fingers

At least the weather is good here
All good things appear near
An abundance of ripe fortitude
Makes solitude precious & everlasting

Hold fast to true strength and virtue
The darkest hour produces the greatest light
Hold fast to your skills and talents
Challenges shape the ones who will not be fallen

"TIghter," ordered the tailor, a drop of sweat dangling from his nose,
"Attention to the detail, this will not be a failure."
Concentrating, the apprentice's hands shaking, squinted his one good eye
Into the thin hole of the needle, the other side infinities void
The bare fire was outrageous with how little heat it was giving
His hands shaking from the cold, the wind hoarse
Outstretching pale fingers, the thread through the needle

She’d been depressed at seeing how her parents had aged in just a couple of years. She hadn’t really contemplated time much before, it had seemed an endless resource.

Seeing her lying listlessly in bed, he asked “Are you ok?”
“I’m getting old,” she admitted, closing her eyes to conserve energy.
“You’re turning 20,” he stated dryly, somewhere in the darkness.
“Still,” she said, “You should know that I’ll start wrinkling, any day now, like a deflating balloon.”
“Yeah, I was afraid of that.” He said. She opened her eyes and looked at him soberly.

“You’re almost 27, are you getting crows feet?” He flinched away from her outstretching hand.
“No,” He responded confidently, but he checked his reflection in her dorm room mirror.
“Soon, your libido will flag,” she informed him solemnly, taking his hand for comfort.
He slipped off the bed and gently closed the bedroom door with a casual swipe of his hand.
“You should start eating fiber,” she gasped, “and retirement planning!”

“I’ve got a few good months left..” he said, as he came back to the bed and started unbuttoning the top of her yellow dress, “I might need someone, in the medical field, to keep an eye on me.”
“I could do that,” she smiled, as his button work progressed, “I do need more clinical hours.”

It was nearing the end of the rainy season. Steady downpours muted all other sounds of the village, the time when everyone slept soundly through the night. The rain had not stopped for weeks, until today. Khadisa woke up before sunrise again, to the smell of cool fresh air, no humid chaleur. She remembered the dream, a girl standing behind a waterfall. She said she could hear her voice, but not make out the words. And the water turned into doves, their flapping wings like beating drums. She started dancing to their music, and blood trickled down her arms and legs in the moonlight.
She uncocooned herself from the medley of blankets, warm tangled sheets still playing hushed reruns of her dreams like seashells reciting ocean lullabies long after the tide. She untucked the mosquito net from under her mattress and silently pulled on her sandals and coat as to not wake her roommate. Mariama was still asleep. Khadisa looked over her shoulder to see her friend nestled into the warm pool of the missing body under covers from where she laid, burrowing unconsciously into her ghost. The amber light of the hallway spilled into the dark room like cream rendering black coffee lucid as the sunrise still hours away. She preferred nights like these, when her husband was away.

“Come back and sleep?” inquired a small voice from a pillowy soft, dream-like haze.
“I’ll be back. En bimbi, Mariama.”

Mariama’s birthmark was just visible from under the covers on her petite frame, an angel on her shoulder flying towards the heavens, to her curly bronze sun-kissed hair and constellation freckles. A memento mori of Icarus before the fall. She was not her blood, but she treated Mariama as a sister, a missing half of herself that had been long forgotten.

XXXXX

I wake as if underwater, neon light and sound blurry like I’m underneath a murky lake. My head throbs. Long tendrils of seaweed bodies sway in foggy currents of flashing, turning, strident beams of light. I’m ascending, body buoyant without weight, as I try to move my numb limbs. What did I take? I look at my hands, the smears of fluorescent orange paint and powder. I just wanted to be free, to fly. Feel the wind, soaring down the mountain path on the back of Mariama’s moto. I stretch my arms out, close my eyes and become the air itself: drifting, unattached.
XXXXX

Guided by light of the full moon and Venus rising, Khadi eased the door shut behind her into the latch with a gentle gratifying “click”. I’m never in the same or different places, but I am good company regardless. I depart as air, a constellation rising. She paused and listened to the morning. Epiphanic night colors divulged to her the secrets of sleep-singing crickets, dream-dancing of cassava leaves, crystal-painting of morning grass. She recited the symphonic canticle with her footfalls on the uneven gravel path to the well, the delicate sway of cotton as she walked in the occasional whistling paths of mosquitos. Soaked in tepid moonlight overflowing from the frame of the mountain Chien Qui Fume, she turned off the path into a grove of trees towards the river, and felt like she was disappearing back into the dark.

xxxxx

“another nuit blanche, huh… or should I say matin? The two must be the same at this point for you now. Just a perpetual, non-stop existence.” Mariam added skeptically, eying Khadi over a steaming cup of ginger tea. The wood from the fire crackled, as if in agreement.

“At least you have hot water for breakfast. Anyway, I am used to waking before sunup to prepare food for the family before the hospital shift.” Khadisah added, “I’ll be fine, habibti. No worries.”

“I know your dreams are getting bad again. Hunde kala e saa’i mun. Everything in its own time. Take care of yourself first, for once.”

She struck a match without reply, lit the candles, and poured herself a second cup of tea. Mango flowers unfolded outside the kitchen window, drinking in the early morning warmth with dusty yellow hands opening to heaven. She held the matchstick and watched the flame approach her fingers, remembering the countless needles she has sterilized to perform surgeries even the male doctors were too uneasy to attempt.

“So, what grand prophecies did I miss in the stars this morning?” Mariama put on her glasses and slid them up over the bridge of her nose with her index finger.

“The usual 3am omens, no bad spirits.”

Mari hummed a little hymn to herself and half-smiled as her green eyes flicked downward to her open book and wordlessly melted away any tension as if she were the effortless break of dawn dissipating a mere cloud of morning fog.

Xxxxx

A songbird starts singing a clear soaring cadence. And I am falling back below inundated shallows. I feel her soft blonde hair on my face, her colors warm and sunny. My name over and over and over. She’s shaking me, but I can’t speak. Her voice is perfect, it is all I hear anymore. Mariama with ivory skin, pastel hair. A ghost? No, a child. No more muted ringing in my ears. I melt into her as everything goes black.
My father was kind, unlike most from where we’re from. The kind do not live long enough. Walking in tall grass before a storm, the wind would whip at us in riotous orchestral gusts; I spread my wings and let the weight of air lift me away into the music. I closed my eyes, face upturned to the swelling rainclouds with pregnant bellies. “My Khadisah’s a little bird! Keep spreading your wings, and you’ll fly across the sea to America one day,” he said in French, the language for educated men.
xxxxx

Prep is the hardest stage for projects. Mariama starts in the cold shop, mapping out the light and colors, the size and shape she’ll be sculpting with. When it comes to the glory holes, something else takes over. She was a fote, of mixed blood. From a family who supported her education, her liberty. She thought of Khadisah’s upbringing, pushed the thought from her head as she focused on the heat of the furnace, the twist on the yoke, and the heavy grounding of the pipe. The sound of the port outside the open studio window grounded her, Conakry’s canoes readying their nets, bobbing in the sunrise stained glassy waters. Khadisah is sea glass, she thought. She heals others as she cannot heal herself, a polished stone ever-changing, and strong to the core. Shaped by something bigger, without choice. Although, the fact that there is no true place for us is shattering. But we’ve learned to live with jagged edges, smoothed them in buckets of the rains we’ve carried for miles on miles. Words can be shrapnel, written of the body, in perpetual ancient gestures. Looking down at the glass on her worktable, thin frames of women curved in dance like limbs of a tree in a whirlwind. ****** hieroglyphics speak of the writhing societal inconsistencies, the murky waters from which we fill our cups. The scars in their hearts built by the privileged, defiling bodies and souls without consent.

They are the ones who do the slaughtering.

xxxxx

“I have always loved mythology,” remarked Mari after perusing a chapter or two of her novel. It was a miracle alone that she knew how to read. “Shame that we lost so many of our stories, women.” Khadi had lost track of time, meditating on her morning rituals. She glanced at the positioning of the rising sun on the burning horizon through gaps of light through red kaleidoscopic trees.
“Next time bring me with you,” Mariama suggested, tapping her temple and pointing to me. “To your walking dreams, I mean. Wherever the night spirits guide you when all other men are sleeping, and the world is entirely ours for the taking.”

Khadisah’s gaze fixed fiercely on her friend’s once more, and the whole room erupted with the veracity of fracturing, interconnected, rampant red color. I try to keep my visions to myself, thinking about what used to become of them.

Glass is an extension; it exists in a constant state of change when molten. People change every second, in a constant half-light of who they are and who they will become. Like the lake between dreaming and reality, or a painting in constant interpretation. A word without formal translation, a feeling. Making stained glass, revelations of shape-cut fragments are painted with glass powder and fired in Mariama’s homemade kiln, fusing mirages of paint to the surface. Soldering joints with lead for stability, there is something meditative of puzzling together their memories. When glassblowing, she breathes life into her art, a revitalized self of otherwise secluded rights. Unveiling colored lenses of filtered light, she distills her life, betrays time. Creating is second to nothing, as concrete as petrified lightning in sand, and the fern-shaped kisses of lightning flowers on skin of raging energy.

xxxxx

It was dead winter, dead night. No shoes, no coat. I stopped answering Mariama’s calls. Too many glass cuts and bruises, empty nights. Walking up the snow-covered sidewalk to the chapel, Khadisah felt like she was buried in the new seamless blankets of fallen snow, fallen angels. Sometimes she forgot who she was. Because she cannot save everyone. A wandering ghost, an oracle without omens. Streetlight glowed through polychromatic windows, complex renderings of tall white figures preaching of salvation. Vivid crowns of gold, marbled robes, and flecked wings outstretching and draped by flickering light on the walls. It all reflected on her skin, histories of stories in light. Candles softened the hallway with the smell of incense and old books. Khadisah sighed and exited, reentered the snowy dreamscape outside, and looked up at the universe. The absence of light was beautiful, empty, and full at the same time. The window from a miniscule existence, what oddly calms and keeps us up at night. It was quiet, no wind, no moon. She laid down, a kite without a string. She started making snow angles and let herself cry about them. All of them. The pain when her husband visited, her daughter’s inevitable path like hers. The imprint of her body congealed to glass by the time the sun rose again, and she spoke colors to the stars. The seasons changed; the stars realigned. And more snow fell into her ghost.

“so, who’s gonna take you home, huh?”

I wake underneath Japanese maple, red leaves outlined in dark umber flaming against the clear blue sky. After a deep breath and regaining my surroundings, I evaluate where I am. The underdeveloped path from the reservation meanders back to site. I don’t remember what time or day it is, but I stand and jump across a trickling iron-red stream, I land on the other side a bit older, a bit wiser. Outlined in sweet grass and sage, I gather the herbs. Mint, sumac, elderberry, and yarrow. Sunlight guides me, and I thank the earth. Wah-doh, I say to the four Winds. Peace.
The mint leaves burn, and their ashes float towards heaven.
-----

Like tuning into the radio station from deep in the forest, she heard fuzzy, fragmented sounds. She felt light against her closed eyelids, but only saw a shoreline. She knew it was a dream. The trees aren’t right – the leaves were replaced by flowers, lending their neon petals to the dense sunset air. Standing in tall sweet grass, but there’s no gravity. She looked up, and saw the Japanese maple, the embers of leaves. And saw a reflection laying in the sun looking down—or up?—at herself. She wanted to fight the setting sun, become pristine like them. But she couldn’t hold her breath under the waters for too long. Spilling from the vase of an inviolate soul, sewing the stars like her scars. When the day is burned, we vanish in moonlight.

_

Working in the hospital, the color red. Panic attacks disassociate Khadisah from reality. She can still see, but can’t move, and only watches the violence as she crumbles under the skin. There were more angel marks, more places, less friendly. Stitches from infancy to womanhood, pedophilic ****** rights. A mother at 13, she cried for days and... feels the words rush back like water flooding all around her, rising around her body. This isn’t flying, this is drowning. So this is permanence, imprisonment from identity. A body collaged up and down, cut and fragmented on city and rural streets like vines salvaging mutilated walls and shattered windows. Being so stuck she was free. She saw a lost childhood in Mariama’s glass, and she was light as a feather in her father’s arms again.

The men say the seizures are from the Diable, but it was worse than that.

Even glaciers sculpt land and cut mountains over time with oceans of frozen glass. But earth was flooding once again.

And there was no blood on her hands.

Her glossy, black pupils meet the ancient, but thoroughly clean, mirror.

In a state when one can stare into the eyes of themselves staring into their own eyes.

She releases the twisted towel and without hesitation the thick curls fall onto her still dampened shoulders.

She slowly reaches forward, carefully outstretching her hand to smear the steam from the mirror too cold for its temperature to have been altered.

The shoulder droplets formed together and created two diminutive streams that rolled down her lower back.

With her reflection no longer obscured, she stared at her mirror image that was staring into her eyes.

They smiled at her when they realized that she was no longer alone.

Warmth clings to my back
Like a comforting blanket
The rays piercing my skin
and at last it is Spring.

Bring me blossom, pink as confetti
Like it is raining petals from Heaven
The petals fall on my face
and at last it is Spring.

The wings of the dove flap above
Guiding my way through the wood
Mushrooms I do not recognise cling to trees
and at last it it is Spring.

Bulbs, the daffodil and the bluebell
stir from their nice warm beds.
Outstretching their leaves to the sky
and at last it is Spring.

The doves,  bluebells and mushrooms
and the warmth of the Spring midday sun
Remind me of my youth and that is not a bad thing
I am just glad that Spring has begun.

"You're as simple as the sea"
I said, and I mean it now.

From afar you are beautiful, well,
Picturesque. An outstretching body of calm.
Shades of blue and inky depths, well,
Hidden from view, but none the less.

This romantic view drew me to you, but I forgot
The stormy days

Out at sea. It screams blue and green,
It engulfs me. It breaks against my little boat,
Rips, drifts, washes away any hope that I have left
Of surviving long enough to see these shifting waters
Tinged angry red, as the sun rises over us
In your single bed.

the river winding down below
the rushing sounds of rapids flow

while high above the trees I stand
to breathe the wonders of this land

vast pines outstretching toward the sky
give shelter to the fowl that fly

the covered rocks and earth that stay
stuck forever in their place

for years on end this place has been
untouched by man, untouched by sin

to some it may seem boring, though
to be in such a place alone

hidden in hills, surrounded by stone
but, for me,
it's coming home

We are the seeds in the shadow. 
We are all we are just now. 
We are dormant.
We are waiting. 
We are agitated.
We are restless.
We are itching our way out of our skins.
We are learning to set forth. 
We are outstretching.
We are reaching towards ourselves.
We are water.
We are light. 
We are the seeds in the shadow.

Two roads diverged in a wood
so I sat down on a bench nearby.
I watched as wanderers walked,
ambling or ambitious,
choosing their own fate.
Some stood a while.
Some sat next to me, twiddling their thumbs in ways no longer lonely,
outstretching their physical means to find a mentor or guide.
Some prevailed.
Others plopped down next to the bench, cross-legged with their heads in the hands or meditating with their fingers in the air.
I stared off for sometime.
Travelers came and went, boarding trains to near and far. Others didn't need the tracks but longed for them anyway.
I sat there for years, wearing the same old hat and coat, wearing thin elsewhere. Who do I want to be? Where am I going? What is my purpose? The only answer ever arriving in the form of some weary-eyed traveler.
We would lock eyes, expose our souls, mutter remorse for it, and they would move on.
And then I would watch the wanderers walk some more.

And if I shall lay down tonight do not cry for my pain, but please rejoice in my name. It's what I've always dreamed, to save someone from their torment, twisted, plagued dreams. Though it seems my time was cut short it has not however because it was passed onto that victim. That person who was neck deep in the sand the one who would be lost if no one had dared wade into their sight.  they all warned me not to go that I would be stuck that they couldn't be saved. That's sadly just not how I work if I had done that I could no longer function in my mind I would instead be broken and lost in my head. I hope that in time you'll all see this to be true that the greatest gift us as protectors can give is my life for you. So please do not mourn my fall or condemn the one whom you've thought to have taken it all. Know that I loved this life and it was my honor to have saved you in your strife, do not think that your indebted to my sins because they have been payed for by your loving grin. go live and walk in the light. Now think of the Beauty of the sight of my outstretching wings as I rise in the light and imagine me it's wonderful I can finally do it I can protect them all at night.  


Every inch of my being would stand up for the little guy, I always have no matter how bad the beating.

A God visits a city,
An Omnipotent One whom
Walks among the dire,
And a woman passes through.
Suddenly she sees God
And her face falls to the ground,
Her blood runs cold
And she feels death coming to her.

But God was confounded,
In all the scared places
In all the faces of even astonished angels,
And the Holy spirits that stopped
To witness the moment,
God did not bring about
Her final moment.

And God remained silent
Outstretching His arms.

But the quaking woman would not
Raise her face from the dust
Where people trampled
On the concrete day in and day out
In inept and rushing,
Still even more a lone tree
Buried among the concrete jungle
Shook in fear,
And the consecrated moment changed.

God,
Mercurial and fiery,
Compassionate and understanding,
Did not and could accept
The woman's reaction,
God with His arms outstretched
Would reach for every human,
And every human still
Trembled in His presence.
And God left the city,
His amorous presence could
Not inspire the people with
Holy reactions of love and embrace
For their true Father.

And God went unto the Heavens,
Arms outstretched,
Alone and omnipresent.

dear god please
stop your ******* mess
stop ******* with my head
and hiding in my bed
and outstretching for my heart
and wrenching it apart
and playing with my hands
and laughing cause you can't
retain anything in
from hurting me within
and ******* with my mess
my mess of a heart
so ripped and torn apart

the first time I saw Algernon
I was sure, God existed,
but He'd looked away for a second too long
and Algernon was bred, born in that shadow
of the Lord's lashes

the first time I saw Algernon,
the world felt wider
and it all lead to his hands
every road outstretched to meet his feet

Algernon made my life feel precarious,
like it'd topple
delicate as a tightrope of cornsilk
and he tugged on it as so

the first time I saw Algernon,
his eyes bore into me
chipped away at me
like patient cleave to reluctant marble

if a feeling could be a man,
summarily, he was a wrenching kind of curiosity
just like when I'd have that dangerous appetite
to flip to the final page of the book I'd only just begun,
far too ahead of myself
just to see
pore over those unexpected words
though I knew it would only be trouble

the trouble with trouble
is that I am, in some sick way,
eager to see it

the trouble with Algernon was
he kept wise
and kept me none the wiser

he looked on me as a child would a bird with a broken wing
morbidly
I cannot help you, but for the sake
of my yet untainted conscience,
I will convince myself I can
and let you die somewhere I can see
like the final page

and the cats tongue I ended up on
the band around my finger
the bite that never lost its teeth

the first time I saw Algernon,
it was a repetition of motion
some calculated corrosion

like gnashing fang
and shadow
and outstretching road
and patient cleave

and he was much,
too much

like me

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/1/2019

Be strong, o brother! And with your eagle wings
whip the clouds, that clouds which threaten you with a storm...
We were born by days so sad and so hard
that great strength is needed not to die out
at some early, lonely grave like a blood-red lightning bolt,
but to live bravely on earth full of tears.

Be strong! Let your young arms
bear the burdens, worthy of your efforts...
Let brotherly love fill your chest...
For as long as at least one spirit in darkness dwells,
as long as at least one heart doesn't know
to what should it devote itself with persistence,
no swordsman should ever rest
in the silence of his own existence.

Be strong! Life overwhelms with its weight
those who, without the helm, will and power,
among the multitude of world's phenomena and contradictions,
err, unwillingly carried by the current of events,
absent-minded and not conscious of their own actions,
like a somnambulist sleep-walking through the night...
The Earth won't lean on them for sure!
And Humanity, in its triumphal march, never takes into account
those who having retreated before the battle - die.
And outside the persistent Spirit Realm
they won't exist, nor will this mysterious shadow,
which disappears when the immaculate sun rises in the sky.

A handful of noble men that are conquering
the future are like loose, solar links,
which are unable into one whole unite...
And maybe it's your spirit they lack
to close the circles of the big chain,
that will engird the globe and push it with might to a new path.

Be strong, o brother! ... ah, your proud chest
I would like to clad in a diamond breastplate,
against the burning breath of carnal lust
that takes you on a journey full of temptations,
against poisoned arrows of doubt
that strike you as bolts of lightning...
But I'm weak myself, and I cannot be your shield,
though I'm standing by your side
like a sister, outstretching my hands,
and I look at light slowly dying in your eyes,
and at your lips, which with a smile
blaspheme to the secret mournings of your soul,
like blasphemous would be a rose adorning orphans' black robes;
And in vain I want to protect you with my tears
against the scorching sun of life that dries up your chest;
And helplessly looking as your soul is dying,
I am calling: o brother, be strong! ...

The ground is shaking under your feet, but you must stay strong!
You have to remain at your post with courage undaunted in the storm.
He who carries the Torch of Hope and hoists
the Victory Standard at the summits of spirituality,
whoever imprints himself with lion's strength
on his own Age, the one to whom the Earth
is like a non-solidfied block,
that his divine mark awaits,
- only he the name of a "Man" shall gain
in the non-erasable annals of immortality!

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Wondering in my illusion...
Confused like a left behind bee
With my bed tasting every part of me
Empty full,empty full d brain goes in unison.

Got it!  Yes, Got it!
Best castle ever built in d air
What else,we already there
Do it!  Yes, Do it!

Rising on my feet,perfect time to take the next step,time to walk
I think I shld Hav a cup of tea bfor outstretching dat leg
A *** of soup, dear leg,more time I beg
Oh Miss stone heard about the Smith's let's have a talk


There goes a bird, it's flying!  It has wings!
There is G. Bush,he is a man, he is walking with two legs!
Ohw! Legs, let's outstretch Now, in our heads we've hurt no eggs
Time to take d next step,bfore dat, a cup of coffee pls.

NBA, La liga,Rugby nation,nd Mr Cricket
Soap, Opera's, Mark Spencer, D$G, Trinidad and Tobago
My jaw aches, dear pillow I need ur kiss, a journey awaits to forego
It's night already,lets sleep more ND enjoy d lullaby of the owl and cricket.

Ohw! Legs, our walk,our journey, do you forget?  
Move fast! Move fast!.. What I see is blur
Our castle, My castle where have you gone?!,at afar I saw it's windows, neigh I see no door.
Like a smoke in its habitat, it has vanished,hello sweet regret.

Would have lived like a prince ND danced like a princess in her cot
Talked with Bush ND eaten with the queen
Owned NBA, Trinidad and Tobago.....yes would have.. Yes would have
Dressed like a king nd slept like a baby.. Of course would have, of course  would have
But No!  It's not

I know a dragon
Ancient and humane
He resides in the cave
He calls lovingly a shadow box
From which he peers
Into the innermost of you
Outstretching a pair of knobbly fingers
To pull the sting out
With a gentle smile
And advice to watch the shame
As if a curious child
Not knowing yet the fear
Of failing
And like a child he smirks at you
With a glance blanketing your doubt
And he could stay in his cave
For ages on end
And he does not like loud parties
In palaces that wouldn’t fit his frame
His fire deemed to hide
Inside the safety of the shadow
To protect mortals from
Being burned alive
By the terrifying truth
Of his breath
Yet with all his strength
He fears my eyes
For he is not accustomed to be seen
And he is angry as much as pleased
To find he is not the only dragon
In the room
How happy I am to find my kin

Isn't it funny,
that walking through a
sun-stained, dripping golden
heat garden full of
green and green and green and
pops of
viridian veins
bursting in quiet,
outstretching desire to
feel the warmth of fire of the
closest, neighbor star
that

I find
myself
more lonely
more confused and
for lack of understanding,
hopelessly wondering
what it is, next to
flowers, I am supposed
to do?

Flowers live and drink the sun and God,
to be a flower too.

It is easy to trust what is known

But to trust concept,
to rely consistently on the unknown
requires courage and grace
beyond human power,
outstretching the capacity of our heavy,
selfish hearts

So the fact that we try
is a remarkable riddle in itself
Thus, I am burdened to ask:

Why do we try
if there is nothing at all?