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no one sees the hungry
hardwired angel naked children see the petals no one says goodbye children bought you every ocean dream and no one sees the petals please say goodbye long ago the words command the sand the bones the water the children laugh lie forget your name and bring you peaceful canyon dreams mother’s drumming bones no one says the blood every ocean fallen with the petals says goodbye no one sees the baby no one laughs no one says goodbye — san jose february 2015
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i put my ear to the brick
and hear no crashing waves only birdsong overwhelming the piazza with avian thunder confusing the wayward tower shrouded with scaffolding of unhurried tourists cold and wondering what is the pain of lifebreath hurrying through veins of viper eyes relaxed and reading omens of night without stars poison at the mountain top streams rocks watered-out campfires a cool breeze through the trees befuddled and snoozing the murderous hands slice crusty loaves of bread and never give hunger a second chance — oakland november 2018 i once jumped out of an airplane.
yeah, i was with others who all thought the air would save us, even though it had no eyes and hands to hold us tight and close, loving each of us who dared to trust the ropes and cloth that could have been laundered and folded neatly by some woman who never watched television or ate pizza. i asked many times but no one told me about the little dog inside me who fell out the window. we barked and howled, but not all the way down. there was no siren, no alarm bell, only the grassy hills and an arrow on the ground pointing at something. i don’t remember anymore at what, just like the professor down in front trying to explain something. i was wearing a white jumpsuit, and i made sure to use the outhouse often enough so that the jumpsuit wouldn’t change colors at the sudden mad moment when i let go of the strut and saw the wing get smaller and smaller. the wind nearly blew off my glasses. i now know why paratroopers in the movies yell “geronimo!” when they jump — so no one hears the little dogs bark. i think i saw a white flower when i got done with falling. i looked around to make sure i wasn’t on fire. later i heard tall grasses tell their adventure stories. it was so long ago the trees don’t remember many times i looked carefully at the dirt when i practiced dying. — oakland july 2017 |
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