Oh No, Here He Goes Again

It would be easier to dehumanize them, to helplessly or passively retaliate, silent in a small dank hovel of incapacity, aloft in views but unresponsive, to say how robotic, how stupid or naive, or how vulnerable, weak-minded they are. To mindlessly follow the leader. But they are smart, real, incredibly human beneath stars, black cloth, almost decipherable characters, entirely human. Prone to genuinely offer great kindness and capable of immense horror. A swift turn of the wheel, changing lanes without notice. They are just like you and I, but bigger, straighter, bold, gilded, bronzed, with broad shoulders. Podium - heightened and inspired by the crowd. One. The ideal, what draws every person to ask for a meatball sub and the others to openly offer. But did we fabricate this need? Is it a real gift? Is it really what he needs if a man asks for something and you give him something else? Oh no, here he goes again, a teal-green reflection of a ballpoint pen. His high leather boots walk over dust, through clouds of smoke, bravely, but more and more apparently confused, still an image of what you need, a projection of who you wish you were. He's on the t.v. and on the radio. He's inescapable. You could spend all passing of the hands of a clock learning through these media or you could read one book and be done with it. But we want the image, the moving image, the person to interact with, to yell at. His rotogravure, ein Rad grinding into cobblestone streets, making grooves. These grooves surpass those of a vinyl record and are not erasable by magnetism. Solid, unmoving, no moving parts. Ground into ground, shaped our own shape. We all want to be that way, to have an impact. At any cost? No, no, no, that couldn't be me. I'm different, stronger, smarter. Here he goes again, a neverending reel of footage. Only this time I ought'nt be so surprised.

Half Turn, Quarter Rock

Hair hanging, not hanging, more like static-charged, but limp, not limp, just normal, gravitationally normal, relatively long, shiny. Half turn, quarter rock, two brown eyes. Up the hill, I see something glisten but don't know if it was really there. A fleck of dust, bright sunlight reflecting or refracting. Forest spirits? The beehive, el laberinto de pan. Drying, crisp orange leaves slipped in, forming a leaf-myrtle carpet. Twenty-five minutes, for twenty-five minutes I've been awake. Making tea, brown rice for lunch. Twenty-five minutes away from this checkered dream, a taxi cab, an elegant dark wooden coffee table. The perfect one. "It was nice to see you," she said. And the one on the other side said "Okay" and half-giggled, half-bagged the next customer's items. Early mornings are the best. I have to check on the rice, finish my tea, and head out there. Examine what may be the second frost, bare trees, except for the protected ones on my hill. They keep them that way, never quite losing summer, perhaps at their own peril.

22 Star, Northside

Black canvas sneakers, one last star shines bright at dawn. Yellow creeps, infiltrating blue and darker shades of blue. His hairline recedes and there is a slight balding patch on top, but otherwise he seems exactly the same: light, jovial, a good friend. I have many friends named Sarah and I'm not sure which one was in my dream: just the letters. S. A. R. A. H. Whichever Sarah it was, I went to give her a hug and accidentally drooled on her white-colored hoody. It was pretty gross, actually. When I pulled away the string of drool stayed strong: one end connected to her shoulder, the other connected to my bottom lip. She said something. I apologized. I really have to stop doing that. Her brother laughed, and we all kind of thought it was funny. You know in dreams where you can't control what happens. But this time I think I was drooling on my pillow and the dream infiltrated my reality. Or reality my dream. Now the yellow is indistiguishable from the white, and most of the blue right in front, facing east, is above my view. That means it's time to move on and get ready for school.

I'm going to 22 today, Northside. But I'll probably wear my fancy shoes instead. Hector told me that his son would be there, at the school near the bridge. I'm not sure if we're talking about the same place. I guess I'll find out. He said the sidewalk curves a bit and then in front of the school there is a drop where two pieces of concrete have shifted. I told him I would look out for it because I think he was worried that I'd fall. Especially in my fancy shoes. I didn't want to ask him if he was nervous or concerned because the look on his face already half-conveyed those feelings. I didn't want to make him self-conscious or more worried by pointing it out so we just stood there for a few minutes, silent.

Hector's son goes to 22. He has very light skin, as if he had never been outdoors in his 7 years of life. I would not even know he was Hispanic had it not been for his name: Rodrigo Alvarez. He is shy and has to learn to speak up for himself, but he's still just a small boy. He does the minimum anyway and gives you just enough information to receive help. You get the feeling that he knows what he needs and he expresses it halfway. He is a community builder, holding back the other half, waiting for you to step in. And he genuinely accepts and needs the help. He's still just a small boy. He has bluish grey eyes and no freckles. All of his adult teeth are in, neatly lined up as they should be, though not perfect, and I only really saw them once. I saw his bottom teeth when he spoke words with e sounds like "me" and "he" and "she" and the top ones when he said "hi" or "I" or "bye."

South Clinton and Rhyme

I love soap. A nice bar of Dove soap. I could take three showers a day with the stuff. So familiar, though newly so. I also love the aftertaste of Tom's of Maine spearmint toothpaste, with its vaguely similar late 80s throwback to baseball cards packs, card and gum included, and Garbage Pail Kids. I like to take a shower before clodding over, pajama pants tucked in to socks, flopping into bed. I turn left, spinal twist, my back cracks. Everything releases. I could enjoy it more but I don't last. Five minutes earlier I was dancing around, doing a dance with no purpose, no motive, one that just fills me and I let my body go. But then I'm dreaming, red and black dreams with a white stripe down the middle. I throw my ring into the Spanish river along with the chain. Both bound, both released. The naranja blossoms harden into stone, following the pineapples' lead. Then they blend, release, soften, and turn from spray-painted almost grey with green letters. I stood strong, so young, alone near the river. Today I look out through one window, half-screened and half transparent, except for the reflection of a lamp that reveals its existence. Pinnacle Hill just past the large pine, electric and cable wires strung across the yard. Its blue with purple clouds; brilliant. Berlioz. A teepee in November is the most appropriate for today, a semi-muddy walk in Greece. A hopeful one, but tentative, pins and needles, prickly, careful. But if all could be released, and I think it can be, then it would be already. Creeping, trying, avoiding, trying to secretly maneuver the psyche as if it were an extraterrestrial behind a veil, not knowing our plans. Trying to get it out as if it were a thing as solid as a vase. A lottery ticket, torn, pasted, lacquered to curved chair with mermaid paint. A teacher who understands, lets things be, gives you a room for your pain and really leaves you alone. Now my vase is painted dark blue, with a green ribbon swooping downward and a brown one sweeping up. The inside is off-white and the whole thing is propped on lime green paper plates from summer. Below that, the one centerpiece plate from our wedding reception. I see what I have, what's right here. He lets me be, just like that teacher, but with enough involvement to gently push me forward, expressing not only what needs to be done, but learning limits, accepting them. Our names are similar but separate. We live on South Clinton and Rhyme. We pay for our laundry with plastic tokens that break. We clutter the hallways in our dreams because we are prohibited to do so in real life. We would get a note otherwise. It's good to be home and better to be wandering through Westland and No Sidewalk Street. Past the willow that looks like it has stood there before houses, before time. We venture out, and it's wild out there. Under the guise of order, and cut lawns, large piles of oak and maples leaves, the pines persist. Keeping that one space full when all else is open, open wide. The pines pierce empty space, softly, with bluish hue. Matthieu. The orange holds on, complementarily displaying what's left of the color wheel, but instead of a circle, a row by row vertical slice, getting wider, farther away.

the birds still sing in my low, cozy cage

blanket spread flat flat sky open with stars emerging I quickly peddle home. here and there you see them, eyes gazing, wondering what unimpressive thing you will do next. The thing that will make them not like you anymore. And is that what you want? Maybe. Words, words, inadequate, poorly formed and edited. Thinking that you're in love...in love with yourself. People have a way of making you feel small when they don't mean to. Mr. B has the nerve, and enough money for his future, climbing his own high walls of inadequate plaster. His palace with tall ceilings, too high for me. Too high for anyone, even the songs of the birds. And yet, he tried. He still tries. To make me cry in public, and then this grown man starts tearing up too. Nonsense! When you make your own decisions as an adult it's different. I was a child and I didn't choose.

Whimpering sadness grief when there is so much real sadness it makes you feel small. And you should feel small. Then you can be normal again and open wide to see what you hate right in front of you. The awkwardnress, the people now that you can't seem to talk to because of history, the past. But you have a good excuse to leave. Or the friend that seems annoyed by you but you know you can't help how you are, you're just trying to be a good friend, but it doesn't always work out. And then the people, so many people, who think they know you and you just wait for them to see you as you are so they are demystified. You tried telling them and they couldn't get it. Sometimes I feel so so alone and then I see someone I know. Someone I want to see, an old friend, without having to try. No one ever really calls me. I have never been popular but I never tried. Remember when you had a phone for a purpose? And people would call it? Now we are so solitary, divided by neighborhoods, houses, times, and lack of telephone wire. But the birds still sing in my low, cozy cage.