Insignificance

I have no new things to say or write today. Only my feelings are propelling my fingers to type these words. Absurd. I have felt this way before. Been down this road before. Drank from this cup of life's lemon juice before. Bittersweet nectar. Alone in my room of thoughts, I think about my life in the presence of my loved one's. I look into their eyes. They look at me with admiration, love. Why do I feel the expectation? There is a conflagration burning in me deep. I can feel it when I sleep. To be better. To be bolder! To be a master of my dreams, that I may not travel this road only. Lonely. These messages tend to take on new trends. Sometimes it depends on the mood at the time, that will define the magnitudes and the measures. I treasure quiet time. The still small voice of the silent. Whispers. I'd rather not talk today. I prefer not to move my lips to convey language. I am on speaking terms with myself. Soley. Defining my method of communication through patience. Waiting. I must take a pause. This evening, I am breathing. Breath. Feeling life as I write the anti-thesis of this synthesis. Detached. There is no significance to this insignificant, scribble scratch. Only words searching for meaning in a world of ambiguities. Conflicted. I am. I am placing my journey on a gurney. Laid out. Stretched to limits of infinity. I am composing. I am posing. I am prosing. Quietly. I have no new things to say or write today. These are ancient lines I've kept confined. In my mind.

You

You are the Queen of Palestine
Goddess of Brooklyn
I’ve read your love for words
I have felt your hurt and your love for love
For that I love you!
I’ve met you in tenderness, underneath blankets of understanding
We cried over brooks overlooking rainbows
I have danced your tears in reminder of my own longing for justice
While you were sleeping, I placed roses in your bedroom of coral
I listened to your breath music, rhythm and blues
and wrote this poem in remembrance of all women all over the world
liberated and in peril of never tasting freedom or peach cobbler or jerk chicken or spanish rice or even the taste of tears
salty and bittersweet
you have written stories
they write Dizzy’s pain in the name of Coltrane
they scale bars and carry notes over the high seas (high c’s)
i received your letter from a bottle and drank myself sober
you’ve intoxicated my penmanship
if only i could sail the Persian for a virgin kiss
i would kiss your fingertips and script this vision in a tablet
to publish your spider web on the inner nets of every room of the rainbow

Oeuvre #3

I fight with the insides of my mind daily. At nighttime I seek companionship in sleep. In sleep, I see myself in the eyes of the storm. My own eyes tell me that I look like raindrops falling in the wind. This is my moment of reflection. I mirror myself after no one. Don’t tell me I look like, sound like, or remind you someone else who appears to be like me. It is highly unlikely that you will find another like me. You’ll find none that can write like me. I write what it feels like to feel empty and alone in a room full of family and friends. I write what it feels like to see myself through another person’s lens. I write what it feel like to not like life, like this life really got something for me. I’m the confused conundrum with double aims. I never wander aimless. I know where indecision can lead me. Bleed me blood with sweat and tears and I am useless to the cause. See my blood sweat and tears and stitch me with gauze. There is no structure to this. There are no foundations to be laid. There are only dreams of future days with the infinite. Don’t try to read this for clarity. Rather, let the murkiness of this writing help you understand the reality of my calamity. So, don’t tell me you know what it feels like. I don’t need any sympathy, because when I die there won’t be a symphony. Just read my favorite poems out loud, among the living, that I may die, as I have lived. Giving.

Oeuvre #2

Memories are the torrential rains of my storms eye. Clouds cry, which form the outlines of paragraphed skies. Authored by the beauty of the day, my life is composed of prose. Thoughts are those ideas that shape me like triangles of fine art, on square canvas. I can see myself, by myself with myself. I am realizing the center of me is the middle of my eternity. Rain(bows) allow the sun to pierce shadows like arrows, giving victory to metaphor in a war of words, or should I say worlds. The city set on the hill of moons can be seen by stars, only if you close your eyes and open your imagination. I have been inhaled by the nostrils of the wind and exhaled into the world to give breath to sound. My life focuses on the out of focus. Clarity is a matter of perspective in the mind. Always mind me, I’m never like this. Never mind me, I always like this. Invert convoluted thinking to discover their parallels. Aren’t you aware, driving yourself to develop your train of thought, takes place on multi-dimensional planes? Sometimes, I look in the mirror and see distorted candles that resemble flames moving like motion pictures in frames of sweet stillness. I am offered to engage in conversation with the man in the mirror. I respectfully decline. I realize, with my real eyes that when I open them up. I see just fine. He is me!

I Notice

I notice you walking, thinking, learning, loving, reading, investigating, laughing, crying, living, giving, teaching, working, creating. I notice you challenging the world, even when the world collapses itself on you. I notice you striving, pushing, going on forward. That is what freedom fighters do. I notice you. I have also noticed that it isn’t at all easy to be who you are. The latina woman, often confused to be African-American, or not really latina, the woman with the “funny” accent, who gets asked, "Where are you from?", the nappy ‘fro wearer, growing locks, really Dominican. The dominican, latina woman, from Hunts Point Avenue, in the Bronx, New York. Schooled by life, hardships, experiences and "Bingo"!, feminist thought, gender and sexuality and patriarchal lingo. I notice the fire inside you. I notice the revolutionary spirit in the way you accessorize, the personal as political. You are simple, the symbol of love, personified in the greatest of literary manuscripts. I notice the complexities of feminist thought, gender and sexuality being a part of your being. I notice you being hard on yourself, when you fear your own power! It is a dangerous thing to imagine potential exponentially. I have noticed. You are a difference maker, critical thinker, untapped artist, secret chef, endowed author, liver of life and future profesora! Know this. In noticing you, I take notice of myself!

Oeuvre #1

Closed meditation sessions offer explanations from the inner depths of my brainchild. I have fostered the beginnings of something wonderful here. Here are the results of the daydream. I write in the lab, gladly exercising the gift of abstractness. The fact of blackness has a deep and profound grip on my life. I am the walker of memories, the builder of dreams, the author of prose, the naked man who stands fully clothed in clothes. I am the beautiful song of songs. I am an existential disciple of life experiences. I have sent love poems through the air. I have sent other poems to breathe for themselves. I am the brilliant mind. I have painted lilacs on pages and scripted magnificent things on the walls of books. There are lovely things to be imagined. Other things are most ugly, some most beautiful, mostly wonderful, mostly human. These fingers are singers. They compose songs. They compose art like Mozart. I compose smart...mentally gifted. These are the beginnings of smiles, bright like many moons. I can count my destiny on five hands, I have two. There are too many ideas to write down in a single session. My obsession is introspection. I know me better than I know myself. I am the conflicted, the addicted, the gifted. Excuse me, I don’t have tolerance. I have patience. Until we meet again, this shall be continued. I write in the lab, it never closes. My mind is always open 24/7. I stretch my back and crack my knuckles. I will be back before the next metaphor.