a peace profile in sepia tones and cotton candy dreams.
She is of crescent moons golden curves and star shine reflected in half-open eyes of REM sleep digesting another day on the apex of praise attention, and even parody;
a knowing eye-twinkle at rest;
grace under any light lunar or lampoon; luminous even among blackened new moon night;
She is earthshine; a crest of coral ocean foam only hinting at the volume of her riches within;
of permanent afterglow guiding her acolyte home.
She is of resting face, lines curving down at the corners;
not a frown, but layered determined peace; a portrait of meditative resolve smoothed upon a capricious landscape.
She is a cosmos unto herself but even she has her breaking point;
she greets me at her center, with shoulders slumped; her horizon curves back onto me,
and I learn of the depths of my own strength holding heaven aloft with only my two frail arms and everything I am
I’ve never eaten a blueberry. I confess I didn’t follow my grandma’s golden rule; don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. They look vile and undignified; like grapes that didn’t quite grape correctly. But my grandbaby is housing those things like they’re nature’s candy, leaving blue and violet streaks everywhere; a little Rembrandt. Every so often, she offers me one with compelling questions of “Uhn? Uhn?” hanging beneath our sun-streaked skylit afternoon. I politely sing, “No thank you!” which always gets a giggle from her before she crams nature’s mess artlessly into her tiny face. She’s more blueberry than toddler now. Maybe I should try one next time she offers.
sea of blue and green bird chatter and child’s laughter we breathe together ***
Reina, destroyer of blueberries, all cleaned up now, focused hard on play. (Image by author, used with permission.)
A concession less than you planned is often framed at a glance as better than nothing,
as there is nothing less than nothing.
As in an absence of sound where a voice should be,
a musical measure that halts three beats before the melody,
an expected reply to a query of love that is absent unexpectedly.
Nothing is both beginning and end and it is often neither;
it is nowhere we want to be and everywhere, inevitably;
a closed door left ajar;
no closure, just a far-off view of horizon unchanging.
Nothing is not an answer we expect, but often by not getting it it’s the answer that we get.
Nothing is what she said before leaving after leaving I love you’s scrawled in condensation on our shared mirror before evaporating into nothing.
***
I know I said that I would be back to writing more frequently, but I wasn’t expecting to become addicted to the Hamilton musical on Disney+
Seriously guys, every waking hour has been spent watching Hamilton, obsessing over Hamilton, breaking down the amazingly dense lyrics to Hamilton, analyzing the musical motifs of Hamilton, watching YouTube videos of others who’ve been analyzing Hamilton, also watching reaction videos of Hamilton, learning the actual history of the real Alexander Hamilton, and well, you get the idea.
Truth be told, the Hamilton Era is the most entertaining of this global pandemic that has exposed my nation as a failed plague-state. It’s way better than the Tiger King Era, and it’s not even close. At-me at your own peril, but I promise, I have the receipts:
Anyway, yes, I’m still alive. Here’s a poem about nothing. Now I gotta get back to watching Hamilton. See you in a week or two.
a low, relentless rumbling thunder in the distance
deep within the abysmal well of its own gravity
roiling and boiling over upon itself
causing tremors
suppressed with a trembling will peeling steel plating from iron bones
unsealed it tears itself from diaphragm
all lung trachea phalanx and phlegm
behold as trembles once secured by butterflies
now transmuted
shattering bedrock to find fault in fault lines
as timid heads flinch and even the bold cower in confusion
oh yes that heaven-piercing howl is my voice
it is mine
your inherited rights those monolithic brittle sensibilities are yours
for now
steady yourself or don’t
you and I are well past decorum. ***
Sorry I’ve been away for so long, but the world is burning, and video games have been a mighty fine distraction from it all.
Self-care? Self-care.
My current game of choice has obviously been the Final Fantasy 7: Remake on PS4. I’ve already beaten the game, but hey, why not go for 100% completion?
I think I’m ready to face the world again. Thanks for your patience.
Bonus video, because I couldn’t settle on just one…
Imagine a world where property value, tax-paid infrastructure, the rule of law,
justice’s infuriatingly slow machinations,
tact, decorum, gold prices and golden manners,
collective peace-of-mind, tranquility of greater-good, and the easy flow of status-quo traffic
and blissful return to whatever we consider our communal normal
were all more important
than the unconscionable completely avoidable death of your son, or brother, or father, or lover.
Really imagine it though, and feel free to sub-out and imagine your daughter, sister, or mother instead
murdered by the state;
I didn’t recommend it because I’m no monster.
Now sit with that moment, that overcooked despair and rage as your civic institutions tell you with a dismissive shrug
that his death was unavoidable, his assailants, servants of the state are good and normal in completing the task of snuffing-out his light
and your reaction to his completely avoidable death is completely unreasonable and lives as proof of the sole reason why guys who look like him
– and yes, who look like you too –
are routinely slaughtered by the state-sanctioned violence in the first place.
He’s never coming back, his voice forever silenced
and there is no one with leveraged power to champion his cause, to validate your grief,
nowhere to turn to wring meaning from your loss.
What would you do? What is your next move?
Whatever you decide, best be quick about it.
Monday’s coming, and you’d better be on time with a smile on your face and a song in your heart.
Wouldn’t want to give anyone within the superstructure the wrong idea that you’re angry or resentful
or one of those malcontents out there disrupting the established order. ***
“But it is not enough for me to stand before you tonight and condemn riots. It would be morally irresponsible for me to do that without, at the same time, condemning the contingent, intolerable conditions that exist in our society. These conditions are the things that cause individuals to feel that they have no other alternative than to engage in violent rebellions to get attention. And I must say tonight that a riot is the language of the unheard. And what is it America has failed to hear? It has failed to hear that the plight of the negro poor has worsened over the last twelve or fifteen years. It has failed to hear that the promises of freedom and justice have not been met. And it has failed to hear that large segments of white society are more concerned about tranquility and the status quo than about justice and humanity.”
Ethel’s Club – Black-owned and operated social club offering access to Black therapists and a multitude of creative events for People of Color.
Crisis Text Line – A different approach to crisis intervention, Crisis Text Line offers you help when you text 741-741. You’ll be able to chat with someone who is willing to listen and provide you with additional resources.
Shine Text. – Black-owned! Sign up to receive cheerful texts and tips every day.
Therapy For Black Girls – A Black-owned a directory to help you find Black therapists in your area.
Hephaestus’ Waste & Cosmic Rubble 