I suppose that this is different, that this is right,
that this is real…
I suppose that I am, too —
complementary and walking,
still mending my
past due shoes
and eliciting
cries over
what color to paint
them (again),
times-two.
I walk further out and
change my mind mid-
sentence, stepping further
and sooner than before
and mimicking a
past like a
circumspect beginning
and my favorite
few words,
spelled differently.
And like my hand reaches for
a “time” to call closer,
I resist the pull from within
and remark that my
hands are freer
than blue winds.
I am let go (dropped the call),
and set inside for safe keeping.
I wait alone, awhile, for a new shake —
for something to move me
another step —
to make me follow through.
I change into a view, a
disguise and shadow
the boxer, the player
in the games.
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?
I visit my past and write toward my future —
a love letter at last given,
my fortune taking toll and assessing
this condition.
I value my sentiment and challenge this
rehearsal,
like a drum, beating —
a system chanting —
I change my mind like you or
your hats.
I visit trusted angles and sail
past the meridian —
selling eagles and visiting
scriptures, passed.
I visit your bald eagle
and say that we are 1.
I value my sentence
and recreate my own dreamland
in your hand.
I imitate said reasons like myself,
chanting.
I reach under the
stairs and select
a new disc
that will change me,
myself and this rule.
something (now) greater than these two: love, freedom. what does that entail? ending: begin here, now. just as these words freeze, emit: transcendent phrases, now pulsing, freely. i have nothing before, i have no ties to this land, this memory or this place.
instead i am free ember, burning, racing – changing now to a wall following wall – a birth of common progress, now understood. this is something that seems existential (more real than flowers, purposefully) – this is why i reside, undetermined and now changing.
love is freedom 