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Only “want” and “love”
should ever come
between “I” and “you”
The bat experiences
no transformation
emerging at dusk
I know you from before
like I’ll know myself.
I.
1000 pounds of Homosapien
bind and fetter
a lofty satin form
with humanness
II.
Littorina littorea -
my Calabrian ancestry,
ethics’ Slow Response to industry,
water displaced by mud
III.
Warhol’s Flower,
simple salverform:
one-dimensional whorl
exposing the central “I”
IV.
“Sadaphuli,” Catharanthus,
Madagascarian medicine
revered for cancer treatment,
once improved upon, eradicated
V.
From a trough in SoHo
among golden swills,
we considered the Summit, and the surrounding satire
the suffering, and the legion of Steeler fans keeping score
The News isn’t that
they burned down the House
it’s how they lived
each day there after
The News isn’t that
he killed The Man
it’s how he lived
each day there after
The news isn’t that
she lost her son
it’s how she lived
each day there after
The news isn’t that
we watched them die
it’s how we lived
each day there after
The news isn’t that
we die alone
it’s how we live
Autumn rustles in the distance. Her moans settle on the sill outside my window and whisper cynicisms. Peering through streaked panes of glass, I am reminded of Spring’s passing and Fall’s grief. I invite the smoky horizon near – that dusty blue that hovers like the icy breath of a future thaw. Taste the ash of yesterday, tongue blackened by tomorrow’s eucalyptus.
Trees boasting green fatigue distinguish the periphery. Constant in their variability, these are the soldiers that guard my dreams – full-lunged, regal beings. Perhaps a reminder of simpler times when soliders were unneeded, when once we were all warriors. Unneeded, if only I could remember -
Breathe. Remember.
The trees are my brethren, my breath. So deliciously ordinary. Out there, see, how they wave to me? First, a single limb and then the others follow in clumsy unison, donning dragon faces which promise a blaze of glory.
Alas, the rooftops reveal themselves amid the leaves, shattering the illusion between fantasy, not fantasy, between out there and in here.
The real estate is a uninspired cell inside the Catherdral of Learning. Human hands streak the windows instead of lead and colored glass. The rain that marked this morning’s revelries has evaporated leaving only the soil and plants below to bare witness, and my own imperfect memory.
Six students, restless, scribble answers onto scantron sheets, a practice in choosing the right bubbles which will determine their academic fate.
Bubble, bubble, bubble, bubble.
POP!
Be sure not to leave any stray marks.
This is the point where I would remove my glasses, if I wore any, and rub the tender spots between my eyes, but I don’t .
A prerequisite for college, this test and all its accompanying stress is a rite of passage. I arrange the hoops and usher the students through, knowing full well that what they’ll find on the other side is not much different than the banality they’re so eager to leave behind. But, I won’t be the one to burst their bubbles.
“You want change?” I want to roar, perhaps toppling my desk for effect. “You want independence? True independence? Then shatter that illusion you so begrudgeoning cling to.”
Looking out, I see how well-trained they are. So polite. So eager. So smart. Looking in, I sense their longing, their desire, their disdain for all the rules and expections of others. All their uncertainty.
My brethren, my breath. I want to shout, “Stand up and take back your life,” perhaps affecting them to topple their own desks too.
If I am your future, you are my past.
Outside: See the hazy horizon and the humble trees? There is comfort in solidarity.
Inside. Feel that flame? Flickering like mine? Flickering at the heart of all that is? What is that flickering?
You? Love? Literally wind against the wick? No trick questions here.
But, of course, I say nothing. I say, “Put your pencils down,” and “Begin work on the next section.” I say nothing.
Instead, I sit up here, uncomfortably behind the the desk and podium, and bury my insides inside a shallow LCD grave. The ink neither runs nor bleeds, but surely one day it will fade.
Yours, bird shadow
on a lattice crowned
crooked fence.
Mine, field of broken
glass glittering
like an ill-spent youth.
*stay tuned for details
prerequisite commitment
interspering stirs
with stories and wine sips
we waited
we sipped our wines
then removed the corn from the ear
with a knife
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AWESOME!!!!! I have no idea how I did THAT. I tried to move the image by cutting and pasting it to the bottom here, but instead I think I translated it to Chinese. Can someone tell me what it says?
It’s a slippery slope.
The chosen road is of water
not rock.
