Dream of rusty robots
Rusty red-scoured robots that tilt over to the side, against walls, against each other Against you. Dream of grey robots Grey slinky-seal robots that rummage through file cabinets, once locked, Your memories. Dream of live robots Live jazz-cool robots that slam on pianos, breaking floors, while You sing. Dream of bitter robots Bitter dust-covered robots that fight each other, fight the wind, tear the sky, set You against-- I worry all the time:
Because my mother taught me not to trust a man, who has good intentions like buying candy on anniversaries. Because my father taught me not to trust a woman, who smiles without any teeth through red lips when accepting flowers. Because my sister taught me not to trust a man, who laughs at every joke another woman makes. Because my brother taught me not trust a woman, who has good intentions like sharing the last cigarette. I worry because my mother, my father, my sister, my brother never tell me to trust them either. I worry because my family never will tell me what happens when trust is broken. [is candy poisoned/flowers dangerous/ just not funny/smoking kills/woman/man/left with the dogs] No one ever tells me, Because some truths just take time Like trusting a man, who sings in the shower every morning Like trusting a woman, who plays dominios and never cheats Like that. And finding out there were things your Family didn’t warn you about. my grandmother
can't wear watches. she and time are old enemies--he kills the timekeepers dead the moment they dare touch her skin. his greatest revenge was my birth. the clock above the fireplace, gold filigree, walnut encased, that hadn't worked in days (or was it years?) chimed 13 times the day my mother labored. a new born reminder that he would always win. now i never wear watches and am always late. out of respect. you understand. River--
the house was awake, stirred by the restless call and response--blessings-- after, pictures would show only the remnants of the seven empty bottles. Three red. Three white. One sparkling, with a cork found lodged in the tree outside. Nothing of the women. Seven women left to feed an old murky dream built by bitter second sons. Can't you hear? River-- He found her on a god forsaken dessert planet
far from any map his mother had painstakingly drawn for him. She was in a cage. The kind that said she was worth more alive than dead-- but only just. He bought her for a bargain. He asked, as he signed, the papers if she was human. Only half, the slave keeper said. half demon, half human. When the cage door opened, she looked at him. In all that was to follow he would never know if it was the human or the devil looking at him --ready to devour him whole. is akin to sucking the venom
out of a rattlesnake bite and spitting it into the desert. Much more useful in fiction. Fate encompasses why the world spins why no word rhymes with orange and why it just didn't work out. Steady, unwavering belief that all the strings are eventually tied, all lost dogs found, every mitten left out in the snow finds a mate has never been a flaw of mine. I am much more willing to believe in a deity that set up our own system and walked away. Our wonderland is the parallel reality of all that could have been. The missed buses, the upswept umbrellas, the kiss with the wrong one and a dance with the right one. Instead, let's love the idea that time does not exist. And everything I could-- I should-- have been is already happening will always happen and has never happened. Meant to be in more realities than mine. (the stack of turtles sinks lower into the pools of the worlds) Uncertainty is embraced when I look at equations I cannot- willnot- understand. Chaos is loved much more when a fall that should have been nothing spins a life around like a penny caught on the edge and then slapped face down-- In another world, I never lose socks, never wear mittens, and hate oranges. In another world, I said yes-- In another world, you asked-- I can admit now it was my fault.
Asking why is always the gauntlet throw down. Church and State. Now that was an excuse, a mindset, a state of being. So then the church: sacred, vessel, reverent. So then state: power-hungry, liar, games --me or her? Church and State. Mind and body. Peter and Paul. Yet, still the voice in the back of the mind murmurs seperation is the real lie. I look in the mirror and a strangers stares back at me. She is also murmuring into the night, running a faded rose-bud rosarie through her fingers. Speaking a dead language only the righetous know. For I have never been the praying kind. Never have I ever
loved with the simplicity of fresh toast. Never drank so quick the ice didn’t have a chance to melt as whiskey pooled and caressed throat. Never sang too loud in a car too fast as rain came down fast to blind a road all too familiar. Never have I ever hated anyone enough to sell family heirlooms handed down, soft jade caressed— by faceless hands. Never fought off jealous bees for honey fresh and warm. Never have I railed at the world as the sun moved behind clouds. Never have I ever lusted over another’s hands at hammer and nail. Never saw a need to devein cold shrimp until my fingers bleed. Never felt the lack. And yet even though I never wanted anyone enough to wear tall shiny shoes, they still wait lonely in my closet. Odd sentinels for all that has not been done. the only truths are these:
watermelon juice is a cheat, a pale substitute for sticky fruit, a bad substitute in the heat of the sun; a gift of begonias can make a stranger smile in pity; cold rain never makes for a good dance, lighting too close for comfort an abandoned coat is worth more than a lover's hug. |
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