Your spoken words have Vibration.
Vibration is Energy.
Energy shifts mass.
Words have power.
Spread the Light.”
I was the soil
you were the seed
we buried the flower
whose roots looked like weeds
“If you don’t become the ocean, you’ll be seasick every day.” ― Leonard Cohen
In the fog of the bathroom mirror that morning
In the back of the yellow cabs that afternoon
In the city that never sleeps that I slept with so sweetly,
I untangled the moon from my web.
Daughters and sun’s light stream in through the cracks,
flowers persist through the breaks in my bones-the windows to the soul
painted bloodshot red-
A designer dream and a clearance rack wake
dressed me in nakedness
and skinned my needs.
In the basket of my childhood bike that dusk,
In the last flicker of the firefly jar and cigarette ash that dawn,
In the city that never sleeps that I stayed next to in it’s coma,
I clawed the first heir from the lungs of my will.
I skim ancient myths for a name
that could mean
a mother’s whisper-
I search the bible for a name
"please come back to me someday."
I start a band with just my heart beat
and scream covers of lullabies sometimes,
and I rock and roll along the waves of pain
knowing I will never hydrate your growing seed
with salt water again
and I know all too well how it feels to have
and I wonder too often how it would have felt to have
I am wide eyed still
(but it’s just the pills)
so you’d think you’d see the world
a little better now,
a little clearer through drunk dialated pupils, now
but the center of your irises will never be Straight A-4.0 GPA students,
because their test taking strategies could never truly prepare them to interpret their own visions-
so daughterhood writes break up letters to the unborn blindness
while I try to make peace
with my innermost violence.
I am all things beautiful,
and all things vain.
I dress in camoflauge behaviour
and draw masterpieces of the pain.
(That angel was the painting and I swear I’m just the frame;
that hope made all the difference and I swear I’m just the same.)
And maybe it’s a thing the young dreamers like me do
but I wrote my name in my cursive voice through every sun roof
and I smashed through glass ceilings like I couldn’t be cut
and learned love is an audition-and you can’t always get the part.
My mother threw darts at the map of her daughter country,
but I will never so much as travel to my own-
so I float through the darkness with my little passport soul
and consume only the staleness of the cigarette smoke.
The sound is ultra loud to only me
in my waiting room mornings.
I will never swim
with the innocence
my shore of unsure drowned.
In the midst of an interrupted blooming cycle that morning,
In the seasickness I swallowed with each terminated backstroke that afternoon,
In the white picket womb of a sleepless city,
I wail with the alarm of my biological clock.
I weep for the flower raked through me
as though it were a weed.
I pray for a botanical miracle-
but we both know
century plants like this
cannot ever blossom again.