who believes in promises? aren’t they meant to be broken?
If they are meant to be broken, why make them?
I don’t make mine, it escapes through my weak and feeble lips
Any time it leaves my glottis, My heart skips and beeps
Like a time bomb that doesn’t know what kind of damage it will cause
But pause. I only feel a greater remorse when someone is hurt
“A greater” i say, it begins every time my mouth opens.
That overwhelming sadness that burns my heart; ovens
It won’t go until I stop making them, it won’t go, it wont go
Ye mouth!! Open and say something you can do and do it so.
Turn, turn, turn
eyes spotting a thumb,
I spin, a Whirling Dervish
morning, noon, and night.
Spin in cycles of 33,
flinging golden threads
of energy to all
creating a vortex
of Light and Love
that fills me,
overflowing chakras of wisdom.
Turn, turn, turn
always to the left.
Spin with me
and merge with
All That Is.
Maybe I was slightly premature in predicting that winter would arrive this week. It certainly has turned colder, with frost at night, but the weather has been fine and we even experienced vivid blue skies a couple of days ago, which made a lovely contrast with these bright red berries.
Five years old almost,
out behind the farthest raspberry bush
in the backyard,
against the chain link fence
but cross legged,
and drowsed in the late August heat,
teaching myself physics by flexing
and unflexing the dead crow’s wing,
stretching it father each time
until it snaps off in my hand.
When it cracks, a spume of dust
forms itself into the shape of a kidney.
Little mites crawl on my hand.
Thirteen years old with a pellet pistol
and in front of friends.
I draw on the bird above me in a 17th century
duelling pose and fire, hitting the thing.
We watch it tumble out of the air
and onto the neighbor’s front lawn.
My buddy says “one shot”
with a kind of awe because we’d watched
The Deer Hunter on tape the day before.
Twenty-five years old just married
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The reason why I don’t clean
or fix my car, and then drive
around Belmont Shore looking
smug with taillights smashed
and duct tape mirrors gaping
at the fluffed white people
shopping is because I might want
them to be offended by my
poorness. I learned this in
4th grade when I would, without
fail, walk into my Gifted And
Talented Education classroom–
where smart kids go to be told
they’re smart—in Orange County—
where the envious go to flourish
in their hive cement sidewalks—
15 minutes late every day, creaking
open the door to teacher already
talking, interrupting, because
my mother, worn out and coffee-fixed,
could never fit a schedule,
it was her subtle way of resisting
her tug-a-long fate—at least she could
rebel against time—and usually
my clothes were dirty or old or
hand-me-downs friends’ mothers
who pitied me gave me, and here
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