We perpetuate heartbreak culture,
teaching girls the man who holds her loves her despite the bruises,
or it was her fault; she looked older.
We fetishes shoulders,
prize youth from the young in return for pre-chewed gum,
swallowing down the same tired ideals from those who still wield them like flags,
waving their patriotism on poles of bone before a throne of medieval *******.
They chant mantras with beer stained breath about how 'our' country 'bested' the rest,
but what about the brutality?
The blood split on foreign soil in return for prehistoric oil?
Our land is deemed pure so long as the violence on our hands never reaches our shores,
but the ocean is red and staining our sands.

How can you have pride in a country who's sole identity is based off having the worlds largest navy?
Congratulations. You bombed your way through countless continents, collecting cultures to gather dust on pedestals and alters
We sin on Sundays, drink till we're ****** then wave at the seven deadly's (they don't apply to us here).
We teach preschoolers nationalism before they can walk,
indoctrinate our children before they can talk.
George killed the dragon.
Hood gave to the poor.
we all jumped on the bandwagon before we realised the princess had no choice and the rich still ruled.
There was no voice in the tale for those whose wail could be ignored.

What about those without lines in the script?
Those kicked to the curb, then kicked from it?
Our pavements have no room for nonconformists,
they're tailored to for same mind, same mindless wanderer,
squandering on the lasted polyesters even though that mouth on the street hasn't eaten in over a week.
'God save the Queen' from the vermin;
the homeless have been tossed out of the trash.
Why help them when you could save your cash by turning a blind?
After all, out of sight, out of mind.
Welcome to England, we hope you like what you find
Because we’re not changing it.

Do you hear those screams, piercing the night? It’s a little annoying sometimes, just when I’m trying to sleep, a shriek tears that delicate fabric of silence, and jolts me awake, once again. I’m not scared of those screams, but there’s something familiar about them, something, about that voice, that dread that cripples my heart-That voice. It belongs to me.                        Sweat rolls down my tiny face, like on a warm summer night, except now every part of me shivers from the cold, on the inside and the outside.

And slowly I start to remember why; why I scream.

The reminder, the memory- It comes. Silently, like a thief tiptoeing into my room. I bear witness unable to move, Still as a rock, I’m smothered by the weight of it, unable to breathe.“Go away”, I try to scream under the weight of a disobedient voice. But it’s no use, the naustalgia is unstoppable.           The coming nightmare whispers silently into my terrified ears, “Shush, enjoy that pain, they say everyone likes it.”And it comes, the pain so painful that death is sweeter. I can’t embrace it, I never will.

 And I’m taken to the past. To the day it all went downhill.

“So many colours!”, I said, as I gaped at the garishly painted wall that I tried to grasp with my gnarly little digits. I was never bored here at the kindergarten, unlike some other muskrats who only bestowed their presence to show off their capabilities to produce saltwater from their eyes and dolphin mating calls from their blackhole-like mouths. Some talent.

It was a sunny summer day and the only thing I didn’t like about it was that every adult complained about the heat -all the time- my mum, my dad and my teachers, everyone. I remember thinking that all these grown-ups were absurd. Sure it was a little hot, but winter was always coming, so it was only fair. Change was constant, but it was such a bright day, why complain at all? I felt exceptionally happy, the whole day was a treat to my imagination laden senses.

Pity, it was such a good day to eat chocolates too.

Another thing I remember about that day was that pesky little boy, who didn't strike me as obnoxious back then, but now I’m retrospect he was really quite a block in the chimney stack. He’d entered class yesterday with the Doraemon pencil that recited generic phrases from the popular kids show, stuffed proudly in his chest pocket. And as he walked to his seat, the sound of his footsteps were punctuated by tiny “oooh’s” and “aaah’s”, as adoring little preschoolers watched the invaluable speaking object reverently. Unable to deal with the sudden adoration prudently, he got ahead of himself as his world fed that ancient balloon- The male ego. He started teaching "art" forms such as scribbling and scratching. And because I was the one sitting next to him, he felt the need to bestow upon me his vast knowledge of the subject. I didn’t really mind this condescension only because the implement he used to teach me was so exquisite. I sat there listening to him till I got bored of him talking about his Daddy and his money.

Then that little bird had started to sing so beautifully, humming at the trees as it sat on our windowsill. Every shrill note out of its little beak sent the "historic" words of that boy deeper and deeper into the dark recesses of my tiny mind. The effect of that simple melody was immediate. I stood up and started to sway slowly to the windowsill. (Even though the things I remember about this make no sense to me now, they are quite an accurate representation of my state of mind at that point.) I loved the little sound that the little birdie made, the memory of it still makes me want to jump and dance. I cooed back to her, “Coo coo(I’m happy too I tried to chirp to her)”. She looked at me quite a while, cocked her head a little to the side and cooed once more before flying off.

She replied!

She understood what I told her and she replied in kind. My wonder making mind went into a mad frenzy. So all the cartoons were true, you could really speak to animals. How I wished, I had a poké-ball! I marched to the teacher in small short joyous steps as she wrote on blackboard and clutched on to the end of her Churidar because my little hands could only go so far.          “Teacher, Teacher”, I squealed in ecstasy, “That birdie spoke to me”          “I’m sure she did, sweetie, now go back to your seat.”, she replied.

Deflated but happy nonetheless, I skipped back to my chair merrily, thinking of little birdies and a magical Pokémon. I remember, I loved how that know-it-all pencilbigmouth kept asking me to tell him what the birdie told me. Even if I hadn’t loved to see him beg,(which I did) it was my little secret, how could I tell him? How would he even start to understand? (Yeah I was being quite the drama queen in my head back then, blame the TV.)

 

 

Here I break apart from my rapture into the past and find that in my subconscious, the memory gets blurry somehow, like the radio running between stations on daddy’s phone, I get snippets of thoughts and feelings as the memory fractures into a thousand pieces.

“Mumma must understand what the birdie said.”
"Pokémon exist."
“Oh! Chocolates! Yay.”
“There’s more, if you want some.”, a gruff voice resounds in my heart.
"More yay."
“Why is he removing his clothes?”
Then suddenly,  I remember the pain- searing hot and burning through me-as clearly as sunlight through trees. Crying and screaming, I tried to escape, but to no avail. There was a big man in front of me now. His lust-crazy eyes, ******* out every piece of my existence. Somehow he was inside me and it hurt, it hurt.

How was he inside me?

Why did it pain so much?

Didn’t he hear my cry?

Stop it.

I couldn’t move, I could do nothing but scream.                                                  He touched me in my softest parts, painfully, pinching me and tearing my skin apart. It was a sea of agony and I was drowning. As I struggled to breathe, the blackness finally took me under. That unconsciousness had saved me and cradled me, lulling me to sleep in its darkness.

It felt like death but crueler, because it let me live.

Looking back I realize, the sun wasn’t bright because it was happy, it was warning me. The day wasn’t bright, it was becoming hotter in foreboding. The bird didn’t tell me it was happy, it told me to fly away, far away.

 

Why are you still making me cry? After all these years, even when you’re asleep behind iron bars. Why are you still here, holding me down in your death clasp.?

Stop it. It hurts.                                                           ­                                                 It hurts.                                                           ­                                                                 ­  I can’t breathe, I’m choking,                                                         ­                          I’m dying.

I’m dyi…..

 

Calm down, I yell at my panicked heart. Slowly inhaling and exhaling, trying to fall back into my dysfunctional sleep, I lay back into my sweat soaked bed and close my eyes. And as the blackness of sleep slowly washes me down under its waves once again, I hear it again, somewhere over the dark horizon.

Stop it! I like this darkness, stop screaming. I sit up once again. I tell myself I’m not afraid of these screams anymore. I ignore the shrieks and the unease growing in me and close my eyes once more. Then I realize that the cries of terror that resound in my ears like a half-forgotten memory, they belong to me.

And once again I start to remember why, why I scream,

And once again the memory comes.

Obedient
Superfluous minced rubicund aqua Phoenician
Our orphanage spills blood from picnics
Menopause conniptions lipstick
Her sons learning curve
Popstar gentleman suicide
The preschoolers last taste of Apple juice
Enola gay is soaring above the vain
Potential future poets and mathematicians
Bright eyes and innocent giggles
The souls of peace
Molecules disintegrate of wondrous dreams

Your name burns
at the base of my stomach,
it tastes like flames
when I say it
but I continue to swallow,
big gulps
that drown out the ringing in my ears

I wonder what it would have felt like
to kiss your lips,
taste the fire in your heart
blood red lust
like innocence dressed in her mother’s lipstick
to trace the outline of your freckles
on soft uncharted skin,
I wonder what it would have felt like
to be your cartographer
to sail the high seas in your iris
and find sand in between my toes
after every visit

I keep imagining the things I would say
if we had met at a different time
I could have started by throwing matches
into your puddles,
and noticing how you smile like sunlight
glinting of the ocean

you are across the world
exploring,
mapping your own skin
and sailing with a crew called options,
they beckon your name
and make you forget that our hands ever brushed,
that we ever exchanged smiles
like two preschoolers
making engagement rings out of fruit loops,
you’re standing tall and brave
shrouded in the peace of letting go
while, I,
wait at the port
for you to return
knowing at the base of my stomach
that you will pass me by on your way home.
“land, **!” means refusing to
acknowledge my tedious “hello”
you will step on my apologies
like the creaky old boards of a ship,
and I will become the tide
lapping at your bare feet

Once, we were pure
Innocent and loved by someone
And we showed love to everyone.
Once, we were children.

Then, in the blink of an eye
That white and holy innocence
Was washed with scarlet
Stained with ebony
And swiftly destroyed.

We tried to be brave
Endure it while we could
We became strong, yet so calloused
But eventually lost ourselves
Our childhood was put to rest
And yet, there was no alter or music or flashy sign
It just dropped dead in its tracks.

On some level, we know that
Floating between this childlike state of mind
And the much too mature circumstances
Will take its toll
But we learn to adapt quickly.

Then, things change.
We begin to notice how adults
Adults who have had the chance to
Fully develop in every aspect
Still fight like petty preschoolers
Or gossip like catty teenagers.

We are still young
So watching these "grown ups" quarrel
Is appalling
Or is it the norm?

At this point,
I laugh at such arguments
And yet a very specific segment of my heart
Is uncomfortable and confused by
Why this has to happen.

I am not afraid of conflict.
But I am disconcerted by
The way many people who are supposed to be
Role models and authority figures
Handle such situations.

I see it at work
At church
At home
At school
Everywhere.

While I am slowly learning
To become a woman
To make my own choices
To follow my own path
I am a minority, perhaps.

Perhaps, we should stop letting those who are still, by the law's definition,
Children
See those who are their supposed leaders
Act like children.

Crashing

into something,

always

Mania like a ******* *****

I am biting my knees

and my head is racing

like a shooting star that nobody wishes on,

and I think I’m going to throw up

and I’ve had a head ache all day

so I got dolled up and reek of smoke, smoke, smoke

and I’ve got this tic where I pick pick pick

at my skin like clockwork

like you hear about **** users doing,

and my grandmother’s neighbor’s **** lab got busted

but that has nothing to do with this.

Can’t tell if I’m sick

or sick of this

felt myself writing my eulogy in my head when I got home,

felt myself running running running

and talking too weird and falling over

and I’m not even drunk

and I’m not even close.

I need to calm down but this mania has me ******* petrified, sick sick sick.

And I know I’m not eating enough and I’m smoking too much and

what I want is my mother, in that summer camp kinda way

where you need somebody to rub your back and coo

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay”

over and over again, letting your sobbing puddle into her lap,

like that time I tried to come out to her

for hours.

In 3rd grade my best friend asked me why my fingers were all sorts of cut up

and I told her, “Oh, you know, farm life” and changed the subject because the sound of the word “picking” makes my body curl up

and two years another girl asked me why my fingertips were purple

and I didn’t tell her it was because I didn’t know how to stop.

I need to run

not away or from something, just run

to catch up with my head

to catch up with my body, shaking shaking on this seat.

This is the one of the worst poems I’ve ever written but I think it’s

probably the most honest

because I am sometimes so scared to be alive,

and so scared to be human.

On an unrelated note, if I tell you I am queer,

I’m not looking for your opinion.

On an unrelated note, last night a girl prayed on her knees for me,

years ago I went to a church where they spoke in tongues over my head as I felt my knees buckle and I cried then, too.

When your only lived experiences are biased with depression, are haunted,

are counting your calories and

praying that something can save you,

and thinking that only you can save yourself, I’m thinking maybe I need something more.

I teach preschoolers almost every week about what it means to be a Christian, what the foundation of the Bible is but

I’m definitely not a Christian, because somewhere along the line, I lost that too.

Maybe I am as arrogant as my first job fired me for being,

maybe I am as ******* human as I’ve always tried to avoid

or something.

I think it is gone now, that stretching thin

that mania

of too much thought racing

train blaring

I’m sick, sick, sick.

There was a girl and she knew when I was upset because I spoke in threes,

in triples,

like I’m begging for that holy trinity,

like I’m shining a flash light at the stars,

calling in Morse code for the night to lift

for the gods to call me up,

like I’m begging for You.

If God knows everything,

does he read this too?

She reads five books a day.
And forgets her children's names when they call.
She works.
Hard.
But she plays almost never.
Only clapping games
With special-needs preschoolers.
She will try until she dies
To stay alive,
But she is quiet and she is shy.
Her thoughts get dusty
Pacing repetitively in her head
And never making it out of her lips.
Her mouth is glued shut...
She married a man
Who switched her Chapstick with glue.
But, Mother, let us dance.
Let the rhythm move your aching bones
And grow happier as you grow older
It should not be the other way.

I go to work each day to tiny hands and welcoming smiles, I claim to have seventeen. I tend to live vicariously through my preschoolers and my brothers four.
I spend my week in the busy classroom, and then my weekends engulfed with them too. But I go home alone.

Most days I'm okay, I'm strong, I'm confident, I'm okay.

I lay here this Saturday morning listening to the crunch of tiny cerial bites, and the quiet murmer of the Lego cartoon making a Melody I've often begged for but never told a soul.
I lay in bed, the three of us, and watch quietly as he stretches and rolls my way, he wraps his tiny arms around my arm and pulls me close. Unbearable, yet I contort and mold to his liking. Your wish is my command, say and I'll do.
And then it's 7:30 and I grab my purse. I pull out a little white pill and my mouth is instantly dry, unwanting. I reluctantly swallow it and lay back down.
And then your dad opens his eyes and they meet mine, and just like that I'm fighting tears. I close my eyes in an attempt to fake sleep, I roll slightly so my tear trickles to the pillow without a trail.
I don't even know how to start that conversation, or if I should, so I write.

The preschoolers
Are perfectly
Lined up
All of them
Staring at me
Fear widening their eyes.

I'm just the
Ticket girl
Passing on their
Papers
Before they step through
The gate.

And I've been there
Too
Scared and
Alone
Reduced to a name and
Barcode
Rushed along by
Those taller than me.

The only difference
Between you and me
Is that I'm too
Old to cry.

But I can
Guarantee that in
Fourteen years
You will be
Just like me and
Your tiny
Hands will have
Painted nails and a
Clipboard
Clicking your pen
Counting the
Blonde heads
At your feet.

You'll be
A different barcode
And you'll be the
Ticket girl instead of me.

And when you get home
And your stud earrings
Have been removed
Will you still be
Nothing more than a
Slip of paper
The water vapor that clings
To the windows?

The same
Ticket girl
Hesitating
At the gate?

You and I
We're both the same
Thinking today
Might change everything
We must be somewhere
Now
And we've
Stalled
Hit a cleanly painted
White wall
And hidden ourselves
From stepping out.

From barcodes we come
To barcodes we return
Whether or not
We're tall
Enough to be the
Ticket girl.

when the nicotine from the black & mild
and the extra shots from the extra pina colada daiquiri downed
(because who can pass up two for one drinks on tuesdays)
and the taste of his bearded lips on mine
finally wear off and subside,
I'm forced to feel the ache I've been so desperately trying to numb and push away
Sometimes things don't work out just the way you thought they would
and not everything that appears to feel good feels good
and ending things seems sad then fine and freeing to teetering on the line
and tongues don't line up but single file is for preschoolers anyway
and happiness is an illusion and a concept I can't grasp
because the idea and the craving of having your hand in mine gets me through the night still but while I held it I felt like my father with arthritic joints and I couldn't ball my fists tight enough to show you how you caused them to lock up and then how you rubbed your thumbs across my skin like medicine traveling beneath it and how you released all of the tension and increased my levels of serotonin.


when the lights go off and my keys begin to click I am overwhelmed with the fear that that i'll never find another pair of hands like yours.
I don't want lipstick stains on the same page I wrote my thoughts down on.

Wings of the Wasp

Is it possible to change into a wasp and fly away into the world of dreams? Małgosia sometimes played with children in the courtyard, but on the swing in her garden she loved to follow the land of imagination. Dad displayed her films on the wall. The heroes of tales were her real friends. She found in books life on the other side…
Through the open window were flying intrusive insects. One of them fell into her ear. She woke up and wiped her eyes from astonishment. The room was swaying like a boat immersed in the sea. Pirate ships were swimming around. The girl looked at the picture hanging on the wall, it  changed into a red bird in a flash. She wanted to get up and go for a walk with the dog, but she felt that something strange is happening. Can that be that she slept in dad’s shaggy jumper? She looked in the mirror and remained speechless. She was all hairy and wings were sprouting from the back. Woven from dreams they were glittering similar to the cloth from which she sewed dresses for dolls. She touched them to feel if they are real. In a moment she lifted up, happy. She has always dreamt about flying. It is surely a dream. Mum’s scarf was fluttering from a wardrobe. Setter in dad’s riding boots entered the room.
-I won’t go to the park like an ordinary dog. I want to know Your world. Maybe we will go the amusement park?-she said with an Irish accent.
The girl couldn’t take a breath. Her pet, beloved cuddly toy spoke with a human voice.
-Altunia! Come here, I’ll comb You.
-Talk to me Alti, that’s how I have written in the family tree. I’m an aristocrat. You can make me an exquisite breakfast, this time I’ll eat bacon and eggs with You at the table and don’t pet me without my permission.
-I’m glad that I can talk with You. I’ve always wanted to know what You feel.
I think that You don’t understand dogs. We’re the most sensitive creatures in the world. You can talk with me, because You’ve changed into a wasp in a wonderful way…
She looked in the mirror and she couldn’t believe. She was an insect. She had antennae, bug eyes and abdomen.
She looked out of the window. Trams were flying at the city like dragonflies. Computers and smartphones conquered the streets. Police dogs were directing traffic. The world was light and colourful like painted with multi-coloured pencils. From huge hands growing from the earth like trees doors were opening, birds were flying from them. Suddenly she heard a strange patter. To her astonishment she saw the most incredible species of dinosaurs which she lately saw in the children coloring book. They were eating leaves from the trees and were talking with people about the construction of a new world. Lego bricks came to life, old ages started to mingle with the present time. Knights on dragons were entering the house, pirates ships were built with the high-speed hovercrafts. Małgosia moved her wings and suddenly she found herself in the familiar place. But it wasn’t similar to her kind-hearted kindergarten. It was rebuilt into a space ship. The most incredible creatures lived there.People-Insects and doggy cats were teaching children alphabet and pronunciation, flowers were quarreling in English about the place in the main alley, lamps were perfecting image showing in the best light. She lifted up over the earth. She could fly higher than eagles and planes. She watched a new world from the bird’s eye view: auto-dragonflies, glidery birds and parroty drones.
Suddenly the storm broke. The lightings changed children room into a huge eye of the cyclone. Red, golden, orange birds circled over the house. They flew from the lost planet of eternal happiness.
Wasps in suits were singing the music of Michael from The Jackson Five. They were playing football with Tsubasa. The world was suspended in the colours of the rainbow. The rain of sweets fell into the earth. Irysy and krówki conquered the milky way. Televisions jibber-jabbered at the table, computers advertised “Prince Polo” around. You could see in them how the world would be in a thousand years time and how it was before Christ.
The world was light as a soap bubble. It was flying higher and higher.
-If You’ll be dilligent and You’ll read a lot of books You’ ll meet a nice surprise.
-What ? I can’t wait!
- I’ll take You to a place which once exists and once doesn’t exist.
She jumped with joy. She moved her wings and flew away with her setter to a mysterious land where the river of caramel flowed, houses, schools and kindergartens were built from wafers and gingerbreads and icicles of Italian ice-cream were hanging down from the roofs.
-Look out! If you taste these sweets the land will melt away.
-They look so delicious, that I can’t hold back.
-In grown up life you’ll have to deny yourself not once.
Ms. Pear went in hand with Mr. Apple to the garden over which hanged the cloud of whipped cream. In this land everyone was long-living. They didn’t know troubles and suffering. The King Honey First ruled there, taught his minions goodness, tolerance and wisdom.
-O! If only on Earth it was so beautiful…
-It is only so in the fairy tales.
-You said that imagination has a great power.
-In the world where you are everything is possible. Look only in the mirror.
She looked in the grandmother’s mirror. She saw a train going into the past, inside chairs seemed to look at her with little gray eyes, oranges were dancing like oriental dancers, still life was coming down from the old pictures and as a living wandered in the corridor of the rushing vehicle. Birds settled down in the antique clock, the dog wagged his tail at them, books told forgotten stories. Two frogs jumped to the room croacking that they’re princesses from the green kingdom.
The room went green taking the form of a shaking jelly. You could jump on it like on the trampoline with the ever growing group of royal frogs, walk through the walls and closed doors. It was infinitely incredible.
-Great…I can walk through the walls, I don’t need windows and doors.
-The world belongs to you princess!
Everything is so soft like a chewing gum, objects extend.
-If You want, you can take something to your hand and form something new, only use imagination.
The girl took a piece of picture and formed a flower, she didn’t like it, so she changed it into a bird. In a flash she taught him how to fly using a sign language. Perfect play, better than old origami!
-And now I’ll show You a trick possible only in the Land of Wasps.
They sat in the children bed which at once started to fly.
-We’ll fly into the future.
They got in and glided twenty years ahead. The girl saw herself with the children at the blackboard. She was teaching English preschoolers. She had home and a happy family. She was writing tales about her experiences from childhood.
Suddenly time twirled. The house lifted up and started to rush nowhere.
-In the Land of Wasps every sorrow can be changed into a joy.
-And now I’ll show you a trick possible only in the Land of Wasps.
-I think that this book is wiser more than one sage.
-From now You will always be happy.


Flowery People

Małgosia suddenly found herself in the flowery world cracking from the excess of colours, shapes, voices, thoughts and prejudices. She tasted life with all senses like a well-baked mum’s cake. She was listening more and more to the huge ear of the flowery world. Something started to rattle. Blurred memories, whispers and voices were coming from inside, flooded with light, saturated with colours.
Faces were moving and restless. She was running losing herself, opening pages of the new events, but everything became for her blurry, reality seemed to be inaccessible. She had to pretend that she understands the world of talking birds and insects, but it was too much for her. She walked slowly in the crowd and in the dazzling brightness of the cars, like a little lonely ant and she didn’t feel the part of the surrounding reality. She prefered to look and taste the beauty of the drop of a dew, changing move of face, mimicry, to listen to the whirr of existence.
Flowery People and Insect-People were in great friendship. In this land the sun was always shinning, no one was sad and didn’t know what evil was. Flowery creatures have never been ill, they lived long and happily. The world was an eternal play of imagination.
-O, if only Earth was such a beautiful, paradise garden.
-Suffering is needed.
-Why?
- For people to appreciate more its absence.
Flowery world had one weakness. It existed only when it was dry and hot. With the rain of tears the garden melted and disappeared.
-As you can see goodness and health are fragile.
-What can we do to save them?
-Do good, respect health.


Pigeonholed

Drawery People full of thoughts and memories were the separated world. There were the corners of existence going to infinity. This interior, the richness of colours, shapes and voices made Małgosia into astonishment. She stood close to the coral time which resembled foamed sea hiding its mysteries. She wanted to get inside, but it was inaccessible for her. Drawery people were still searching the stairs leading to the interior. In their kingdom everything was blurring, losing shapes and names. Life played with death, it was music and her echo.
They walked with difficulty, jamed, hiding fears, they were like unwritten pages of the books. Closed they came to life, when someone opened the drawer. Cities were built inside where kings and ordinary people lived. You only had to look inside and small kingdoms, empires and civilizations arised. Pages of the exercise-book were changing into planes and pencils into ballet dancers.
-Don’t touch them, because they’re so fragile that they will break in a moment. Like corals strung on a thread. That’s life of the pigeonholed people.
-I’d like to talk with them.
-Before You have to learn their language.
-The whole world separates us.
-Look out when you clean the desk, pencil case and school accessories, you can hurt its being. Every object has a soul, you have to only learn to see and hear them, not only think about yourself. Pens changed suddenly into the army of soldiers, they started to fight with the sharpeners. She found a sentence on the desk: “fulfill your dreams”. In every drawer a new dream was waiting and a new world to discover, you had to only find the key and the door to the most magnificient tale was opening. In the first drawer she saw little people, everything was diminished there. You had to tiptoe not to afraid creatures little and helpless like children. In the second drawer there was the world of giants, in the next lived animals speaking with a human voice, in the another there were pencils changed into wizards, flying trams, glidery birds. She opened the old, creaky door.
She went to the wardrobe. She took her favourite clothes. It appeared that they could move her into the different time. Somehow she has never liked to wear dresses and tights, but she saw that after wearing them she could travel to another planet and know it inhabitants. In a new world everything was possible. It was sufficient to have a dream and furry wings took her wherever she wanted. She had to find suitable key for the magical desk. It happened that this key was learning a new word. The girl started to read more tales, dictionaries and belles-lettres because she wanted her dreams to come true.
Thanks to the wings she visited all the countries of the world. She was moving in time, she learned history, geography and literature. She discovered how big is the power of thought and imagination. She lived in the land of pure white, everything was fleeting here, it lasted only a moment and then it stopped to be. She traveled there where instead of people walked clocks in hats, they were driving cars, building new civilizations. In this place time was flowing too fast, she couldn’t keep up with him.
-I want to save him. Be always a happy child. Just like in my dreams. Why it can’t be like that?
-If you were a child, you would be really unhappy. Dreams are beautiful only for a moment, then comes reality which can be beautiful too. You only have to use imagination, change bad moments into a joy-said Irish lady.
Suddenly strong wind started to blow. It turned over the pages. In one moment the letters woke up from a dream and started to walk in the city. Some of them wanted to be free and changed into birds. It was strange to meet wandering letters in the street. Suddenly the whole world was filled with the alphabet from the tales.
-People think that they know our world, but it hides many mysteries. In every letter there is a treasure more precious than gold. Who will discover hidden meanings, will be the happiest sage-said the setter.
-Why people don’t read tales and stories, they prefer to close in the circle of computers and televisions?-asked the girl.
-It’s easier. Life written in books is more rich, but more difficult to learn.
-It’s a pity that I’m not a dog, then everything would be much easier.
-O princess, believe me, our world is more complicated than you think. Be happy that you have a loving family and a dog, the most faithful friend.
-Take me to the other land that I would tell children and grandchildren.
-Bow-wow-barked the dog and together they soared.
She landed in the country where ruled the colour blue, yellow and red. When she woke up she was in the place of eternal happiness. Adults didn’t have to go to work and children get up to school. Duties were changed into pleasure. This world was infinite, it was swimming like a river, it was swaying like a pendulum of a clock. It resembled cat’s cradle. Lakes were looking at people like the faithful river. You could see your soul in them like in the mirror.
-What is happiness?
-It’s different for everyone.
-Dogs are happy when they have treats and comfortable bedding.
-Probably we are the most happy when man likes back our fidelity and devotion.
Suddenly the drawers and wardrobes extended like telescopes, they started to look at me and smile. I was sure that they hide the stories of the past years. I learned that dresser was once a princess and coffee table the knight in the Romanian chariot.
Drawery cities were flooded by the tea with lemon.
-I have to save it and clean up.
-You can do it like in life, there is always a way.
Drawery city closed and started to dream for the next years.
-Maybe it will wake up when it grows up.



On the Other side of the Mirror

Gosia remembers how she didn’t want to get out from the house of dolls and children bathtub. She imagined that she hides time to the pocket and changes its course. She was coming back to a little girl listening to her world. Every moment was filled with longing for childhood. Life was closing in the room of play. She felt like a spider tangling the net with the thread of imagination. She created new kingdoms on the pieces of paper, she rambled to the past.
She folded life in the drawers like mother clothes. Time stopped to flow then. Every word, look was a story. Moments resembled the river of her childhood where she felt safe and peaceful, she could be whatever she wanted in spite of the world. She floundered in the water like a heron, she was touching the sand soft like a dream, she was paddling, the water was still, clean like her reflection in the mirror, fear and anxieties disappeared, everything was possible, she imitated the flight of birds, she felt one of them, free and comfortable with herself. The border between childhood and adulthood didn’t exist. She could dream, she didn’t hear the voices of the street, cars rushing nowhere, there was only she and the river. She was looking with joy at the hut from the children adventures. It was built with leaves and letters of memories. She laid on the back and turned her face toward the sun. She was approaching to the footbridge taking her away from adulthood. Green waves entwined her body and soul. She wanted to spread her wings and fly away.
Mom, Dad and dog, it was all her world which provided peace. Time was playing with her, it was looking at her with a pinch of salt when she was changing into a bird, stone, river swimming to the desired goal.
Life seen through the mirror has broken to pieces.
Grown up Małgosia cleaned her room of play. She closed the drawers of the desk.
She got dressed and combed her hair on her own. She didn’t need the Land of Wasps any more…

In my dreams, we’re walking along the edge of the universe. My love for you is like the **** sun, burning miles away and lighting up brightly than any other star. Time isn’t real here; there’s only us and couple million flowers. Forever. But then again, my dreams aren’t real either. And forever doesn’t exist for anyone.
We are together in each universe. We are calm in every reality. I’m tired of all these parallel universes teasing my head where we’re together.
I wanted to love you significantly; leaving small kisses on your heart.
Then teach me to have the same wounds so we could match.  
Today my best friend asked me, “Baby, how many ******* times do you think of this darling devil of yours a day!?” and I said, “Well, I guess just once because ever since I  met him, he hasn’t left my  ******* mind...”
I dance with you on our string of stars. And when I laugh with my preschoolers I wish you could see these young pieces of love just so they could make you laugh too.
Sunsets still remind me of you because they make me miserable and blissful simultaneously. Being able to watch something leave, like the sun, excited for him to bring light to someone else while leaving me.  
I’m still convinced you’re the only one who makes the sky blush and flush like I did when I was with you. But it’s been raining and snowing ever since you left. All I think I ever wanted was to watch the sun rise and set with you.
When it rains the raindrops and thunder tell me; “you’re lucky that he’s caused tears to fall from your eyes. Doesn’t it make you feel alive?”
“Yes, it does. Less cynical too. Recklessly so.” I cry back.

Not swearing on my life, bad mojo, Hoodoo, strange Voodoo's
Not suggesting there are people twisting the thumbscrews
Pleasant people, pleasant thoughts, no unwilling Cards playing 3D checkers.  Did you know there are byrd's they call, woodpeckers?

That cursing curse taking hard-earned dollars out of my purse.
And what is worse...  finally carried off in a Hearse. I best marry a nurse, wait now, I did marry a nurse but she ditched that job.
Stressed-out she followed her heart and took education to work with preschoolers until the course took her off course

Teaching the children not so well, pushing ideas, propagandizing thin-privilege.  Children, it's okay to be that... that rhymes with you know what, it rhymes with fat. She left that stuff leaving her student debt and you can bet she'll pay in off in record time.

Cheap rugs all over the place, cheap rugs all over the place
Cheap rugs in time and space... I bought new sneakers, they're the type you lace. Two-faced discovered to me a disgrace only they too are part of he human-race, causing peoples to be displaced.

The Curse, it might be the first, probably not... praying the bad luck is the last. I want to leave this place, leave real fast. Move on through to that other side. Morrison had his faults leaving a lot in the vaults. Now he's free, the tub scene in the Morrison movie I don't buy, I could tell you why but that borders gossip and a lot of people would flip (out). Not 'fly'.

So, what's it all about, it's not the wordsmithing that I flout
Just me avoiding 'the' gout, getting sick, I'm having my doubt
I'll be taking another route, no matter how many people may pout
Reading tea leaves, drinking green tea, the cup holding posies, showing me I'm free, not only to survive, it's to 'I' am that I thrive

When I think of days gone by
I never quite remember
The nights spent fast asleep
The youthful dreams of both thrill and terror
My remembrance is of an awakening
Playing basketball and dreaming of a league
The name of which I did not full understand
Because I thought NBA was a dictionary word
That had its roots in people before us
It was noun, verb, adjective, and adverb in one flick of the tongue.
Noun as in NBA
Verb as in to NBA
Adjective as in NBA player
Adverb as in NBA likes
See I was paying attention in English class after all.

Other’s thoughts of drinking from hoses did not appeal
Because the high rise was my portion.
The water fountain would suffice for me.
Running races and coming in last
So I would race against the shadows hoping first would be my turn.
Drinking juices that seemed to be lab experiments
Which had different recipes of water, food coloring and sugar.
They said it would make us hyper
I would have to agree
Because after a morning stuck inside in class
I could not wait to go outside.
They called it recess
But I did not get why playing had to have a name.
Because I just called it ball.

Later when I played sports in school
And my age was double-figured
I still did not understand why playing had to be organized.
I still called it ball
Sometimes we would put a broken crate over a tree
And shoot the basketball into it.
Then stare with blank faces at parents
When they told us they played netball in our native land.
Over here it is just ball, mom.
Where I was we used to play 50.
So imagine my surprise when I tried out
And realized they did not count a basket as 5 points
I did protest, vigorously
Saying this is my chance, Coach.
For every shot I make to be kindergarten aged.
Because the rest of the other kids have more threes in their nature
Then a class full of preschoolers going to the Bronx zoo.
So their class outnumbers my class.
My coach did not get my point.
I did not get the point, either.
Because it was hard for me to make foul shots like them too.
My coach murmured to me, They just have more class, period.

Eventually the nights leave
And the day goes by.
My fantasy has come true.
Sort of.
I am on a NBA basketball court.
About to make a free throw.
But this is not a game.
They told me it was complimentary with the ticket.
Did not matter what happened.
Or how I got this opportunity.
I said to myself, This is not a game.
That was why I practiced this morning.
So I shot the ball
And hit my cap when I shot
I feared I would miss.
I knew I should have taken it off.
But I was relieved when it went in.
What it proved was not as important as what I did.

More nights go on trips not to be seen again.
And more days walk by
They become the memories of a photo album
And the times I start talking about by saying
When I comb back black hair
When I brush the grey
Even if I touch a head unburdened by hair strands
Because the divine no longer needs to number them
I will tell my children
I will speak of it to my grandchildren through the haze of age.
I knew a simpler time
My youth was good.

On the shoulder of I-84’s
overpass as eastbound
enters Portland,
an almond tree
lets down its fruit.

Her petals,
pink the same as preschoolers
color the sky
and white as the paper
beneath the wax,
tremble in the violence
of Internationals
and Peterbilts,
the same violence
that grabs fistfuls
of my sweater
in intervals.

Jack under, jack up,
lug nuts off after a fight
and this freeway tumbles
in a storm of those flowers
cast off in April-sun,
I am down a layer and sweaty.

Steel wire arcs where sidewall was
and rubber gralloch marks its death,
those eight seconds of braking
behind, those eleven tree species
lined as a windbreak.

      I am lucky to have stopped
      beneath this almond.
      It is the only tree in bloom
      along this stretch.
      Its softness has lessened the day.
      Her olfactory embrace deadens
      that of axle grease and sunrot.
      I am not afraid of those trucks
      passing a wrench-span away.
      This is enough, for now.

Not only was I a kindergarten teacher,
But hey!
Guess what?
Your preschoolers teacher
Can't live off what they pay her.

So I had yet another job,
This was ontop of my other job as a tutor.
So I guess a third job?

Seriously, your kid's teachers are paid for *****.
It's a miracle they haven't
Hired serial killers at this rate.

Regardless, I ran a tight ship.
It was technically a democracy,
Except I held the power of infinite vetoes.

Like starting a fire with a microscope,
Vetoed.

Sitting and standing on top of tables with ***** shoes,
Then eating ontop of said tables.
Hard veto.

Lets play with a bunch of sharp forks, and stab each other.
Also a veto.

Gosh, I'm now a dictator and they're going to get their
Mommy and daddy to fire me.
Also vetoed
After a series of explanations on how it works.

Your 10 year old?
Yeah, the one full of manners and good sense??
Your kid's teacher is what keeping your kid alive.
You're welcome.

I trumpet the withdrawal
of democratic contender from out the presidential race.

Breaking headline news story
courtesy rumor monger premieres
showcasing emphatic groundswell
against feeble minded incumbent.

Extraordinary turn of current events
immediately enlivens the United States populace
injecting much needed lively discussion
about gerontocracy deliberating for the electorate.

Though ill suited for any storied role in American government
yours truly (a sexagenarian) could vouchsafe for entrusting the
beleaguered state of the union in the hands of a qualified female
or male candidate born within Generation X Born 1965–1980.

Upon growing national groundswell of alarm
agonizing, capitalizing, eulogizing, galvanizing,
initializing, jeopardizing, polarizing...
voters (née namely citizens) of United States
plus capital one, buzzfeeding learned folks
linkedin courtesy webbed wide world,
an earthshaking crisis emboldens an erstwhile
average joe (biden his time) suddenly
chose to loose his humble opinion
across the Internet to affect

an immediate emergency session
of government officials
to address inexorable lurch
toward absolute zero democracy,
which liaison of Democrats and Republicans
necessitates closed door session
to resolve and allay the shear madness
lurking within the outer limits
of the fast approaching twilight zone
where dark shadows

creep toward utter chaos,
cuz our country tis of thee
teeters on the brink of
the astute heads of state,
and even popular stars
in the limelight beseech, implore,
and knead the malleable consciences
of sensible sons and daughters
genealogically linkedin to storied personalities
fomenting the American Revolution.

Outright riots promise to spill blood
and sacrifice the lives
of at least one anonymous worthy wordsmith,
(who might possibly
be an English Major incarnate)
in tandem with militant posses submerging
the land of the free
and home of the brave into anarchy
already terroristic subterfuge

rallies quintessential pronouncement
hinting quacking ducks lined in a row
where progostigation of dystopian future
impossible mission to detail
a scenario one cannot even conjure
from an overactive imagination
such as mine flirtation
with the Brave New World
already reflecting the absence of freedoms.

Not much effort required
to hypothesize severe limitations
and even harsh measures
taken against me for merely
sharing a what if scenario
barely even approximating
fallout from writing something
so passé as the following.
Haint no walk in the (Linkin) Park
(like back in the day
during the twenty fourth year
of the twenty first century),
I remember fondly as a sexagenarian -
shooting the breeze
on many a temperate
mid summer nights dream,
or later at four after midnight
nodding off to sleep
listening to deep sleep music

courtesy scouring youtube
then mostly free
from the electronic eyes of the government,
cuz soon sophisticated spyware -
linkedin with augmented/
virtual reality and microchips
incorporating sensors record
critical nodes' details traversed by each bit,
where computer hackers given free license
to explore weaknesses within system of the down.

Afterwards rigorously tested apps courtesy
south of the borders penned up
(think veritable sweatshop) preschoolers,
or applications put thru their paces
by kindergarteners similarly encaged
laboring with their collective cute button noses
to the grindstone sunup to sundown
exception made for little fingers reprieve
come holidays or birthday of product tester
prior to software being installed
on every machine sold for personal use) -
ultimately allowed (rather mandated)

by fiat and enabled a self declared autocrat
to obtain covert information
about another's computer activities
by transmitting data covertly from their hard drive -
espying websites visited
accumulating treasure trove of data -
possibly unwittingly hitting the bullseye
when subtly targeting and ingeniously
lampooning agent provocateur
cleverly communicating hidden messages
subsequently courtesy from said wiseacre.