Social media is an odd public diary
full of our successes and whims
our late night takeout
and early morning musings
Like a hamster in a wheel I spun for years
not asking myself why
Now I dream in peace
with a plain white coffee cup
my morning news
taken with silence
still drawing your face on my hand
with Sharpie
still running my hand across the water
still believing somewhere that
pain is real
and love is something
to live for
The story of North and South America
told on the knee of a woman
at a sugar plantation
is different then the story
told in the homes where they use the sugar
for cookies
The story told in the jungles of Brazil
and the deserts of New Mexico
on the reservation
is a different story
than the one told in the shiny halls
of an Ivy League School
It's different than the story at the socialist meeting
down on 9th avenue behind the bar
It's different than the factory workers
talking over coffee on lunch
It's different than
the mob boss
and the white collar stock exchange
it's different than that.
Sugar coated numb bunnies
Running rough on rum and tumbleweed fires
Grace cloud freedom
Political mud bath dip stick
checking oil on the Middle East Texas tanker
Foam Mint water
Gratitude longitude rude dude cowboy
Indian smothering ashes of
Hum Drum America
African lady patterns bright loud
accordion screeching car tires
New Orleans nightfall
I will never understand that part of myself
the bones in my hand that strummed the guitar of nonsense
the sound waves hitting my ears and rumbling
to my toes
I danced a menace in a Tokyo brothel
a seance meant to induce sleep
the rural men of the country held rulers to my legs
makeshift submarines to plunge into the total darkness
Menthol cigarettes and ruby drops of blood
on the cold tile floor of the art museum
it turns out the statue
was just a prop
and all that dances around here is flies
exquisite corpse? hardly
the Dia de las Muertos in Pilsen brings forth
every forgotten memory
stuck to the sides of my mind like salt in a cave
I crave every footstep
in the hallway in the stairs
in the bank vault
in the pressure
and the release
of control
My Dad gave me an osage orange
this is so refreshing to write about
because it really happened
I gave him a rug for the bathroom floor which my mom gave to me and I gave to him
sometimes I feel like we are all Indians and Pilgrims
making trades around Thanksgiving
My Dad has a maroon pickup truck
and he has cut down trees
My Mom has a lot of artificial plants, which we have a plastic tub to put them in.
Life is grand.
Social media is an odd public diary full of our successes and whims our late night takeout and early morning musings Like a hamster in a wh...
