There's the sleeping poem, and that's the majority of them you know.
And then once in a while there's the poem that comes alive and strips your fingertips from its shoulders, and, before you know it, you're slipping down the throat of metaphors, ingested through the skin of paint brush letters, becoming a part of the script, bleeding cheek to cheek with particulates and action verbs that disrobe you of your own contrived collage. That is when you understand that you're a channel, baby and maybe just a little bit of a moral hustler, an ethical simile similar to the wounded wolf who seeks revenge not through the jaws but through the lobes of conscience.
“How do you write your poems?”
I would laugh like a knife and walk out, but how could they know? If they did, they wouldn’t ask their questions. Patience is a virtue I am learning.
Explaining to them that the poems write me instead of the other way around is an exercise in futility, unless they’re tilty with one foot in underland and the other in the cosmic pool, like me.
Rat, ta, tat, tat, this morning ripped itself through my white peel.
The windows seem to buckle, and the floor crawled up to my hips.
Unbranching from over there is a bitch somedays, when your leaves are green and succulent, and a thousand jovial critters have made your body their haven, why would you want to come back to the grey splatters human days?
“What motivates you?”
What motivates me to breathe? Biological involuntary reflex. What motivates me to write? Cerebral involuntary reflex.
Ask the people who abide me daily, what I turn into when the words take hold. Most will roll their eyes and tell you to stay far away.
Back in Magyarorszag, mother's side of the family crossed themselves and vacated the courtyard whenever I took the quill and stroked the ink like wine . . . .the other family, the Rumany, the Deme clan, leaned in like stone faces with bright stone eyes . . . .avid and waiting . . . .
My eyes are green, camouflage, I smile, chameleon girl, with Arabian and Asian Ink pouring through Braille fingers . . . . staining another drab day alive . . . .
Alex Gombas was one of my students at United Children’s Preschool in New Brunswick, where I taught for many years, he was also my daughter’s friend. Energetic and smart, his future was already sealed by a class based society that dictates how opportunities are meted out, 99% of the time based on the size of the silver spoon a child is born gripping.
I remember Alex at my daughter’s 5th Birthday. He and another little boy, Josue, had been innocently crushing on my Fiona for years, and they were engaged in the whole male territorial games from the time they walked into the house, defined by their own age level of claiming the most comfortable and biggest recliner.
Still makes me smile.
Alex and his sister stayed after the party with their mom.
I remember him relaxing on the couch, and telling his mom, he never
wanted to leave our home.
Forward wind 9 years.
I was doing a Facebook search of old classmates of Fiona’s from the preschool. I put in Alex Gombas into search, and only a single page came up.
RIP Alex Gombas.
Alex, who had no silver spoon, just an amazing brain, and a sweet, playful nature had gotten caught up, as most young men in New Brunswick do, with gang activity.
He was stabbed to death at the age of fourteen by other gang members over territory.
I think my daughter cried for days.
Whenever we go back to New Brunswick, we drive past the street where Alex was murdered. She wonders sometimes how her life would have been if we hadn’t moved when she was 8.
My daughters were not born with silver spoons.
My eldest was caught by the gutter at a young age, and extricating her
was a nightmare that taught me many things about society and class systems beneath the surface of a nation that prides itself on democracy, which is laughable. The juvenile justice system is a joke, at the core of which rests not the welfare of children but profit for the system.
I got them the hell out of New Brunswick, before Fiona could be
caught in the web of drugs, and gangs, and violence. I busted my ass working, going to school, to better my chances to better their chances.
Did you know you live in a segregated society based on monetary
The story of Alex is just one in millions.
The difference is, we knew him.
I think back sometimes to that moment, where he was so calm, watching television with Fiona and his young sister, saying “I want to live here.”
In my mind I change his future constantly.
He did not die, he lives with us, forever.
Life is precious. The world of mankind is hard.
But we can save our sons and our daughters if we ruled the world . . . .
~RIP Alex Gombas~
There is a subtle undertone to the shine in the world today. It’s kind of a haze, which could stun a girl and leave her hovering just on the outskirts of another story squirming in a stubborn palm.
It’s been suggested many times I start a blog, though who would be drawn to my kaleidoscopic ramblings is beyond me.
The world doesn’t work for me as it seems to work for so many. It’s a rose that’s been peeled to its molecular splendor, and the blossoms are playing coy with the thorns, where the thorns are the victims.
Does that make sense? Probably only to me, but if it does then you’re in the right place, where unfairy tales from underland are born and I’m a sort of tinctured phlebotomist reversing the draw and injecting ink through the
membrane that barely divides the concrete from the light rasp of wings against the shadow doorframe.
I could go on about current events, but they’re depressingly frayed and overdone as it is.
The media is relentless. Those little boys burning with their father, broken people in the streets of Syria, political chicanery dropping tongue in cheek cherry bombs into possible futures under the ministrations of men poorly equipped to run a nation, except deeper into the ground.
No, not today. Today I’ll zone to Tony Soprano in the background while the mattress complains about being squeezed into its flannel sheet and the old
hen paces back and forth and back and forth outside the kitchen window, waiting for Fi’s watermelon rinds.
Maybe I’ll join together a string from there to a thread from here, and piss off or intrigue the Thing for the thousandth time. It’s a moody little thing. But that’s what makes it interesting.
Feel free to add your clarity or madness or whatever you're made of to the blog, that's why it's a blog afterall, no? So we can interact and tesseract much to the amusement of The Thing, I assure you. And maybe if we keep it distracted long enough, the world might pop a bone or two back into place and right itself just a little bit.