My heart tries (in feeble attempt) to write itself down —
        to express with mere words, my only sanity — this belief,
                this love, this art, this practice. So, with compliment,
                        I retire to the sea and watch the waves
                                and time slip by…
                                        I feel out my “ancestors” — my
                                                reign, my “roots” — am I
                                                        tied?
                                                                I think not.
I think not of stupid things and meditate on nothing. I write
        emotions and feelings that bubble up and change course
                over a “moment” — across borders, la frontera
                        etc. etc.
        I value my “freedom”/responsibility to choose and act
wisely — with grace and intelligence; carefully. I feel out
        my better steps and pay no mind to false critics who
                think they may judge the value of my work —
                an extension, like an arm, of my being here.
        At present, I am reminded of how I began, as things
                end and “time” is seemingly more concrete,
                        more like ice — susceptible to wear, but
                                fragile, broken, and never there…
                                        nothing to depend on.
        I buy books because they are blank.
I don’t read books because they are empty inside.
        I write and paint and draw “now” because it is natural
                like breathing — a new sense that I am exploring.
        My favorite words begin and end in the same sentence —
they are concise and brief — simple, yet strong.
        My favorite song is slow and melodic.
                My time is not wasted on fools or dream-
                        thinkers.
                        Dreamers are actors who believe in beliefs —
                in what they see, how they feel, and history —
                the way things are.
Dreamers are false idols.
        Anything that can be seen, touched, or tasted —
        sensed, is false — truth cannot be sold, bought,
                held, or forgotten; known or forgiven — or
                        given, like in a book or inherited like a
                                strong nose.
My ancestors gave me false starts, but maybe I was one
        of them, on a a slave ship, out in the fields —
                freezing, thawing, working, dying.
And now what?
        How am I different? What is different?
What has changed?
        My heart still beats boldly, strangely, desperately
                for freedom
                        and my mind still allows for control —
                who am I?
        And why, oh why, am I here — as a reminder that
                I am no longer? Or as a symbol
                        of temporary form — of dying and
                                death?

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