May the 4th Be With You

New moon.
New beginnings.
The beginning of the end.
The race is run.
The horse has crossed the line of flashes and rose petals, scented with mint and dust mingled, sheltered under straw hats atop the perfectly coiffed hair of millionaires, asking for a few more dollars to place on a square, a bet, as the kids say, they do say the darndest things and they are captured on camera at the perfect time to make us all laugh just enough to make yet another dollar and another dollar to fill your pockets and the pockets of the men with the white collars, starched, stiff and straight, like the olive filled martini they carry in a rocks glass minus the rocks for the sake of not looking like the lady holding the julep, or pink drink, dreaming of pink things, and bling things, glittered, studded, pinky rings, lifted and clanking a toast from pinky to glass, from guest to host, the MC, the keeper of keys, holding the ceremony for you and me even though we don’t even know the ingredients. We don’t know the make up of this complex day, a concoction, a cocktail of space, horses, and new leaves springing out of the hoof-beaten ground from dirt to galaxy, jockey to jedi, sashes to sabers, lighting up the land far, far away in the midst of this monthly darkest day. But from dark comes light, from death stars, life, galloping through supernovas and black holes across the black circular terrain, paving a path, opening a door for us to restore, renew, balance, keep steady on top of this muscular, wild, creature carrying us whether we like it or not, setting our intentions by letting go of setting and just being, breathing, star-gazing, trailblazing through the darkest night lit on fire by each of our individual powers, by manifestation strong enough to shatter thousands of flashbulbs, breaking, blinding, hoping that your nose, your least favorite feature, will in fact be the deciding factor in your victory, that your obstacle will secure your crown over beasts, men, star lords, and villains, Doubt, the evilest one.
The darkest night is only the beginning of the brightest day.
Shine on dark moon.
May the 4th be with you.

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B&W

A photograph
a snapshot, frozen in time,
black and white, high contrast,
a stark difference between each tone,
harsh lines divide and define
what we consider to be above the poverty line.
But the line is so thin,
the margin so close,
close as the chicken wire fence,
the tetanus infested dividing post,
a tattered tin roof, the throne of the cat.
Who dat over dere
sitting where my ancestors sat?
We have occupied this place for some hundreds of years
that we took out of fear
that our kind was being cleared,
extinguished, put out,
put up, swept away,
down the gangway,
walk the plank,
and raise a flag with your claim
to this new world, this new land.
But a hand covered in this soil is just as brown as your hand
and your feet that walk this very same path,
mud between our toes,
sulphur in our nose,
family in our hearts.
So close and yet so far apart.
But if you peel back a layer
dim the lights, close your eyes,
you breathe in the same salt air depicted in our photographs,
It’s same backdrop as mine.
But it seems we’re stuck, frozen in time,
in the humidity and muck,
of this blood drenched earth, sucked in and sticky
from the trespasses you made against me,
my grandfather made against yours
and my people made a thousand times before.
But if we stop to look around and zoom out
the world is spinning so fast ahead
leaving us in this cloud,
a time capsule of hate
buzzing with transgressions we can’t seem to erase
or swat away like the mosquitos who don’t discriminate
between black, white, or grey,
yellow, brown, red alike
our blood is sucked and mingled in the belly of a pest,
a mite whose tolerance for other is more evolved,
though it’s brain may be small it sucks freely from all
despite the shade of the wrapping of this precious gift sustained and spilt
time and time again until one of us loses
but what if we both win?
Crown a victor of us all,
crown high on our heads,
let it dance and glimmer, sparkle and spread
throughout this land
where sunbeams shoot down through Spanish moss,
the old oak branches, dressed in beads tossed
then Flash! bulb broken, broken glass,
watch your step or you’ll have the same gash as your neighbor,
your friend,
your equal.
One race.
One class.
So once more let’s gather around
to the humming twang of banjo sounds,
frogs singing, rejoicing, lifting one voice.
We’re painting a new picture in indigos, blue-green,
oil, acrylic, matte, shiny, sheen,
a permanent depiction,
mixed watercolors too,
swirling together, a masterpiece, a Krewe.

Awakening

To awaken oneself, as the French would say;
a reflexive looking inside.

To awaken oneself.

To bring oneself out of a state of sleep or rest;
to dust off the cobwebs; to destroy the rust
that has settled in from decades of monotony or sloth,
slowly creeping up one branch
to reach the ripest fruit
but at what cost?

What is the price of being awake?

Of seeing the world through a philosopher’s lens
or a politician’s skeptical pocket book?

Why study the chambers and valves of the pump
that sloshes around a life-giving liquid,
when it seems to do just fine on its own
without the help of man
or woman, a soft creature by nature,
or so we assume that which we have been told
in our sleep
by our parents
who read us bedtime stories
told by their parents
and theirs before,
whose source of fact comes from a paper or radio show,
or the neighbor next door,
who last time I checked has been camping for years
on the bale of hay so perfectly propped on their porch
where they spy like crows
seeking the next empty headed scarecrow to feed on,
to pluck out their button eyes and deafen their cornfed ears
so he may lie asleep for years and years,
because who needs change anyway?

Our books are comfortable collecting dust and mites
on the shelves and side tables
perched neatly next to a memory foam throne
that has more skills for retention than the current generation
who have lost the knack for memorization.

Who needs facts when Siri is your best friend,
cousin to your second aunt twice removed, Google,
who is happy to do all the heavy lifting for you
because we have grown weary,
atrophied,
complacent.
Our fingers more skilled at swiping right
than turning a page,
or cracking a spine,
taking a whiff of the history in fine cursive lines.
We squint to read because our eyes our heavy
from dreaming of princes and fairies,
education, libraries,
equality, justice,
and so many other tales we’ve heard in the folklore of future generations,
sent in a tiny capsule from those with 20/20, without correction,
or the need to sit in the front section of a lecture
to see in the reflection of the screens
projecting images back of ourselves
walking around like zombies,
eyes glazed over with the film of deception
or better yet closed,
shut tight,
locked,
with no way in from the outside,
stuck in our own prison
pondering what the cost would be to

w a k e   o n e s e l f   u p  ,

to run full force out of this dream,
or nightmare,
where opinion holds court over truth as a monarch who awaits a curtsy,
because that is what we are expected to do.

To bend the knee, to bow the head,
submit,
stay quiet and underfed,
malnourished of facts,
science,
history,
biology;
an autobiography writing its own ending
if the puppet master continues to get his way
and his every move we complicity obey,
if we don’t break free from the strings
tying us to the Bastille’s floor of stony concrete,
we’ll be running madly
through bloody streets
and severed heads
to defeat forces believed to be beyond our control
but what David has set his mind to
no Goliath can put asunder
so we must awaken ourselves from this slumber
and Stay Woke.

Illusion

An illusion:

A slight of hand slightly different than what appears in the mirror,
if a mirror is even something to be trusted,
as it is constructed
of metal and glass and bits
made from man
with their sweaty hands,
tinkering away to create a shard
where you can stand and reflect
on if the angle of where your jaw and chin meet
measures up in a way that pleases the masses
and check off the box we are put inside,
concealed and bound with chains and locks
into a mold.

We’re bold,

but not clever like Houdini,
with a skill for wiggling out of any corner society has backed him into

and with a flash,

bang,

they are fooled.

Full of deceit and lies,
cashing receipts
for the tricks they’ve been sold,
because the age-old smoke and mirrors has succeeded again

but  We  are  n o t  f o o l e d.

We are not tricked.

We see a spade for a spade on the back of an ornate king bedazzled in diamonds, capturing the hearts of queens,
hiring jokers,
the masters of the craft
of making us laugh
as a distraction from the true terror illuminated under the Light of the Moon,

but that’s just one side of the story.

The shadow of the eclipse is presented to one hemisphere,
while the other bathes in milky, incandescent pools of hope,
dancing in masks on the dreams of the other
because they are blinded by the brightness of what isn’t even light,
but a reflection of light,
if light is even what we think it is.

Alas, we
have been tricked

by Science (or Ignorance),

into believing that our side of the story is what truly holds water
when in fact it is  w e i g h t l e s s ,
blown away by a strong current,
the hurricanes and cyclones of another world,
built to destroy our perception of perfection,
when if you flip a coin you can’t make heads or tails
of light
or dark
and Grey suddenly becomes the only truth you’ve ever known;
in its subtlety,
in its wavering footsteps,
on a dusty surface too cold for life,
but too beautiful to not consider the possibilities
and dream of a Universe bigger than our earthly tricks and games,
where we have put blame on the other side of a two-way mirror
that if we just wait long enough,
we will see the problem we’ve been staring at the whole time is
ourselves.

So the Moon turns and fades…

It illuminates.

It darkens.

Its shadows deceive our eyes
which require light shone just the right way
to reveal the magicians truth:

that behind the glitter,
the smoke,
the dust,
the velvet,
and the rabbit-filled top hat,

the Glass is shattered.

A sparkle glimmers blindingly at just the right angle,
a geometric revelation that when all is said and done,
when the lights fade and the music stops,
the violin creaks a final screech,
the bow halting,
cymbals crashing,

we are left in a world of Grey,

splattered,

sprayed colorless,

where  d e t a i l s    n  o  w    f  a  d  e

and perceptions bleed into one dull shade…

We are one card-up-the-sleeve away from giving up the Magician’s secret:
Things Aren’t Always as They Seem

Creat(ion)ivity

To create.

To grow.

From nothing comes all.
Just a seed,
a tiny inkling of an idea,
a germ germinated through soil and muck and dirt,
worm-covered and slick, slimy, slithering through the trenches,
the maze of roots rooted in the ground.

The Beginning.

The Earth;

the base of all where Life begins and falls.

It’s a cyclical merry-go-round spinning at a dizzying rate,
flashing with vibrant, neon, technicolor,
blinding from the speed and change

The rate of change.

The rate of death.

The death of Life.

All from a singular being, swollen with watery pride.
Is it a nest or a tomb this watery grave?
New Life or Undead,
walking stiff legged, blank faced, glazed eyes
crying out in hunger for the first or the last time?

The lines are blurred as they so often are in every color of the spectrum:
red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, ultraviolet rays
blazing down from the sun,
creating a photosynthetic, polyester, plaster, and ceramic life,
molded from the clay of the earth or the rib of a woman: the holding cell of all,
this ossiferous cavern mingling blood and bone
made from sweat and tears for 9 months and 18 more or less years.

Life.

                           Life.

What defines the life of a creature other than to live

to breathe

to count the moments until breath ceases to be the arduous, single, laborious task
when the first and the last
give an overwhelming sense of joy and relief to the owner
and all those fortunate enough to witness it?

It’s forgotten.

It’s taken for granted.

The sack protected by the rib,
given by the rib from which you were created,
is the Great Protector.

Your filling.

Your pump.

Your sustenance.

Your soul.

It rises and falls as the sun and moon do
daily,
yearly,
e t e r n a l l y
chasing each other around the universe,
playing tag throughout the galaxies.
Waxing,
waning over all to give rise and fall to the chests of its subjects
whether they gasp in fear, awe, surprise, shame, joy
or in the pangs of,

h e e  h e e    h o o                 h e e  h e e    hoo

the Breath of all breaths which brings forth you and I

no   matter   who   we   have   killed.

We all come from a breath,
with a breath,
the very life giving,
life sustaining effect
that will be our demise.

Still –
we rise
and fall
and rise
and fall
and Rise.

Abundance

an abundance of towels
Abundance paper mâchéed with hundreds, the money of peasants
the presents of peasants
pheasants, feathers, peacocks, sequined, majestic birds take flight
soaring, swarming, flying through space
the luxury to waste such precious moments
to not be present

winged in abundance
fabrics, mixed metals, stilettos of all colors
a waterfall or water feature, which is a basic need
when your carpet is cash, your wallpaper coins
your furniture upholstered with deeds to castles
chateaux of the old world, enriching your new world
where you reign as sovereign to your body, your shrine, your temple, your hive

to busting your ass on the streets
so you can sleep in golden honeyed hexagonal sheets of 1000 ply Egyptian thread cotton passed down by godmother Cleopatra
the Queen of Kings
the Queen of gods
Bless Her
Her art withstands; respect long gone
but who gives a shit when you own all the johns
all the drones in the palm of a powerful hand
whose primary task is keeping a firm grasp on a bejewelled scepter
the other hand housing the nectar
a salty heap of caviar
the offspring of thousands of women who offered themselves as sacrifice to the great god Independence

queenbee

If I wasn’t afraid of my body, I would:

If I wasn’t afraid of my body, I would:

paiting

I would wear shorts more often, bikinis, tight fitting clothing.

I would take more physical risks.

Jumping. Flying. Falling.

I would walk around naked in my living room, sleep naked under the moon
(if it wasn’t too cold)

Tan parts that have never met the sun.

I would eat and drink strange and unusual things; things my body rejects.

Things my mirror rejects.

Things my self rejects and society rejects.