Her Face a Song

Her Face a Song

She came to me. Like she knew that her pain and my guilt were forces meant to be joined together. A magnet, she walked right up to the window and locked eyes with me. She knew the guilt, the shame, that my humanity and hers would conjure up. Years of smokestain in the cracks and folds of her skin, sunken mouth and a pair of lonely brown eyes like the mouth of a tunnel. She was silent but her face sang me a song.


On the return, a moth fluttering in the back-light of a streetlamp, between the fingers of needles, then just over my head. A happen chance glance that changed the entire course of my fluttering mind.


Wants and Needs

Under a dense grey sky, under the gas station canopy, a black girl wonders, sentences collapsing at the edge of her lips. She’s wearing a rain jacket with the hood partially up over the back of her head. She has legs that are like matchsticks, legs that are barely there, waiting to catch fire. She’s holding everything she owns (everything she needs), cantering around in syllables, she yells to the fungus soaked maples, something about want or need. From behind the broken down cars (or nearly broken down) parked on the side of the building a white girl comes out, fiercely walking, full of intention, her short hair in a short tail, shaved on the sides. Her flannel shirt lifts in the drifts and kisses the undersides of her arms. Short shorts so short it’s like she’s wearing legs, flicks her cigarette and walks passed the black girl -with hardly a look, and she thinks something about wants or needs. The gas station remains empty, territory claimed.

Living

Living
with the knife between your teeth
bloodshot eyes
sweat on the brow
'Here's Johnny'
type living
that must be
real living.
clenched fist
razor blade scrapping
knuckles
bruised and ragged
a tireless workshop
of words
always going 'round
each other with words
'round each other with fictions
isn't it funny how words
can stroke
can bury
Living
real living
you don't even know what real living is
nobody does
itching
the scratch
temptations'
callous hands
busy at work
-always at work
and you call yourself
a liar and you call
yourself flames
and you stroke
and bury
and stroke and
bury
until there's no more
weight left to carry
Wake Up!
you dance with
last nights hallow
memories
of dreams
putting distances
between
you and your loved ones
trying your damndest
to live up to someone else's
ideal
Wake Up!
wriggling
like a trout
plashing
the waters
ripple
lungs
balloon
expansive now
the waters rising
touching
the tip
of your nose
and there's no
where for your feet
to touch
Wake Up!
it's 6 o'clock tomorrow morning
time to get up and go to work.

Resistance

Habits are memories in action

Inaction is resistance

Resistance is the sound the wind makes

Rain streaked window pane

When you go

don’t slam the door

when you go

it’s all gone

it seems i’ve got it out for myself

afraid of really livin’

i always make it harder

and when you’re not around

my head gets to spinnin’

habits are memories

in action

inaction is resistance

resistance is the sound

wind makes

When you go

don’t slam the door

when you go

it’s all gone

So sick of this self deception and

inattention we’re living in

mirrors of reflections man

it’s alright,

it’s alright,

it’s all light

it’s all light

Once i get caught up in these shadows

you think i’m missin’

but all i need from you

is to fuckin’ listen

Habits

are memories in action

Inaction is resistance

Resistance is the sound

that wind makes.

When you go

don’t slam the door

when you go

it’s all gone

I’ve got this gene

It’s self defeating

I know I can’t win

Because I always give in.

Habits

are memories in action

Inaction is resistance

Resistance is the sound

that wind makes.

Addiction (A Poem)

Addiction
Replete with silence
mistaken for taken sides
an escape artist
i’ve mastered the illusion of being here

with my hands bound i drown

sinking into a sea of misery
escaping from reality.

seagulls’ echoed cries of agony and

hunger pierce the surface
of this mirrored illusion. refractions of
sparkling lights and distorted fantasies
dance like idyllic reruns on a liquid screen.

filled with conflict and struggle

i look for distractions in actions
-typical American response really-
there’s always something out there,
to make it all better again.

i transform the object into what i need,

simultaneously the object transforms me
again and again.

this sinking does not have a sinking feeling

in the vastness of expanse i close my eyes
it feels like a primordial womb
a viscid mix: sediment and water
walls of feathery pink tissue undulate
purple fingerling tendrils caress me
they are and are not my body

heartbeats and pressure builds

compressing coralline ribs
split fragments pierce lungs
forgotten -what was i escaping?

somewhere in between

reverberations and nothingness,
swallowed in the abyss
where even a thousand buddhas couldn’t
hear my song,

bottomless shadows fill the sea

i writhe
singing back into infinity
this void holds no sound
i’m bound to repetition.