place names

it was like this.

poor man sought to attain new riches. he searched long and hard to earn enough to buy himself a house and a car and make an inheritance for his children beyond poverty... and in so became greedy, and drank away all he had. but, now without a family, he had no reason to pass along material wealth when he met his maker, so he drank on. he was last seen on the corner by the rich side, pretending to be blind.

i was gonna move to the city
and build me a name out
of nothing
and find me an actor
who wanted the same
who'd help me pretend i'd left the small life
from my small town
they all knew me, and saw my fall
and though i was young i knew that was all it would take
to drive them away
and so i'd make me a name
a strong one
a rich one
a proud one
built it lofty high, to hide from my shame.

that's how it was.

you'd think they'd long left me broken but nary a
tear would fall from my eyes that i felt.
i saw what i was supposed to and did what i was told.

it was like this.
the day we turned the soil to cover your remains i did not touch the shovel, i did not speak your name
death became me well.
but all of that does not belie the truth that i am my father's daughter.
my blood runs south
as deep as the bayou
do not be fooled, my nature is a
divided one.
even in my family
there is a black and white side
those drifting in between are
defined by "more or less"
i myself am a lighter hue
but none of us have a true name. we fit our mold
to best suit our ambition, and yet we
still crawl in the gutters.
the mud and grime and swampy water
soak deep into the skin. and when someone
questions you, you say "yes, ma'am" and
"no, sir" and you lower your eyes... never
look up. you might see something you want that you cannot have.
the days are drying up with the receding tide.

i became a writer to shield my existence from my own insecurities.
to pretend i could not hear when they called me names i would seem to be lost in thought, discovering a phrase. but then i quite accidentally found, while attaining shallow (insight? reflection?) that i truly sought to find a story to tell... and the very things that made believe i was lost made me find myself as i truly am. my stories come from true things, though they are not always factual. but i don't write statistics, i write people.

crazy? i was crazy once. they put me in a room.

i search for the perfect words to articulate my sight as i lust after forbidden fruit - my yearning cannot be quenched. such is my original sin... self-seeking... i look within me to see without me... my drive to attain knowledge and awareness makes me blind to what i see, as in passion i forget all in yearning for release.

blindly stabbing at the words
i fall short of my eloquent ideals
but they haphazardly fall into
place so i'll drive the anthem on.

there once was a day, and it was long. and the shadows slowly stretched, and the wind barely moved, and the sun beat hot and dry. i drank my water. my thirst was assuaged and i found myself slowly drifting to dreams.

this is a pauper's story.
the anthem has struck me deep
i made no name
but my words have constructed
a semblance of the dream
that i dreamt in my waking hours.

that's how it was.

knots

you'd think if you're tired of running, you would stop.
i feel as if my insides are tangled
like a necklace that knots itself as you wear it
and as you ponder the knot that occured without tying
you become increasingly agitated when it won't come out.

stupid necklace. never liked the damn thing anyway.

and so here again we are running in circles
lighter and softer, but still the same dance.
i might just remember to pause and consider
if you would remind me, and give me a chance.

tomorrow i'll sit on the windowsill and dip my brush
in the hue that i mixed with colors and water and
hope for a sight that often eludes me, and perhaps
my attempt will turn phrases and rhyme into meaning.

sometimes i feel as if i'm doodling, while the world begins
to end. and yet without craving the light that i'm tasting i see
no reason to breathe.

porridge

you always think you're going to notice when everything changes. the sun should have a different hue, or the birds a different tune, or the ocean a different blue, like in the movies. maybe all your memories should be in sepia, so you know they're too far behind to recapture.

i don't think there will be a stop here next time. i think the station will decay and the track will fade away. but maybe we'll find each other in that place we've always thought we would go, but never have.