Raspberries

Encircling this small town is a well traversed and poorly maintained sidewalk. The trees are allowed to take over, their roots pressing the panels of concrete up like lids to slow moving jack-in-the-boxes. Occasionally, attempts will be made to manage these roots, but there will always be other trees that need to push in order to grow. Paths and streets connect to the sidewalk, running in and out of city like oxygen-seeking capillaries. Along this sidewalk there is a thicket of raspberries, possessing the deepest red fruits buried amongst tiny chlorophyl needles.

There are some people who manage to pass by the bushes every day, completely unaware of the crimson fruit. Some have never taken time to consider their saccharine taste. There are those who glance at the berries every day, but choose to abstain. They turn away for fear of scratches, they wait hoping to find a perfect berry- or at least a berry that is easy to reach.

That one berry could be the best berry on the bush. It could have been prematurely picked, rotten, half eaten by insects, or dehydrated by the summer sun. Those lips do not know the difference, but their perception of raspberries will be based off of that one.

There are those who take time, cautiously plucking the berries at the outer-branches, hoping to find the sweetest fruits whilst getting the fewest scratches. They compare their handful of berries to one another, tend to the occasional scratch, maybe show off the scar.

Then, there are the divers, those of us who pay no mind to the abrasions, for we only wish to taste the sweetness of the fruit. The stinging is overpowered by the red juice on our lips. We know the varying tastes, the affects of sunlight, and occasionally the bitterness of rot.

All those that pass by the thicket have to interact with each other at some point in time, and they all deal with their consumption in some way. Perhaps we would never know that there was anything different or wrong with our approach, had it not been for our interactions with one another.

Why are your lips so red?
What have you done to your arms?
You’ve devalued the berry by being so glutinous!
How can you be so courageous to suffer those cuts?
Do they all taste the same?
Did theirs taste better?
At least I never suffered a stomach ache.
Should I be ashamed of the scars on my skin and hide the marks?
Were those savory moments worth the pricking?
It’s hard to see these cuts in the winter, when there are no more berries to be had.
Why must the bushes have thorns?
-Because the scratches are only as deep as you make them.

Citrus Tree

it grew on the side of the piss smelling road-
the pummelo tree.
your neighborhood filled with the intoxicating smell
it clung to your tonsils- could be sensed by your guts.
it covered the fetor of car exhaust, the urine, the neighbor’s waste
(or at least masked it in some way.)

redolent flowers fell away
you waited, watching
small little fruits grew through the heat
their ovaries developing seeds and pith
Taught, pore-filled skin expanding
not ripe, not ripe, and still green

the skin changed, and you waited
a beaconing color to appear
(anything not green)

beneath the tree,
(one day as you were coming)
was a yellow fruit- fallen
and there, with remembrance of evocative smells
(and a sign of ripeness)
you reached up, pulled the fruit
the branch bent under pressure
the stem, holding, reluctant to give

still so sweetly acidulated,
the skin easily pulled away
thick, discarded on the ground
and to your lips, the sections of ovary met
not yet as sweet as they could have been
but eaten with great satisfaction

but the pummelo tree had so many fruit
and the pummelo tree knew that they would be ripe soon
so it forgot the one stolen part
the one torn from its branches
and the tree just stood,
deciding to mature more of its seeds
for future consumption and growth

Mind Wonders.

Let me explain, the erratic flow of my brain.
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You know what babydoll, I don’ wanna tell people about how hard I have worked anymore. I don’t want to have to justify myself by how many hours I spent breaking my back, how many people I have sucked up to, the drops of sweat of my brow. I don’ wanna look for validation in man-hours that got me no where, except under another man.

The next time I strain my stress, I want it to be for me, or getting some other peoples somewhere, to something better. Not gonna be another gear in the machine. I get it. nothing to brag about or work towards in there.

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Every person, is a person. They each have a beating heart, two lungs, and a complex brain. Those people whose brains process information in a similar manner to our own are less threatening, because they think and act in a way that we already understand. But, even those who live in a way that is foreign, even “wrong” to us, still have a beating heart, two lungs, and a complex brain.

What scares us are the complex functions of the brain, and the emotions that motivate action. It is unseen, and therefor up for greater speculation.

People were cursed with an inconsistent, unstable existence, and the desire to find stability and regulation.

If you look at any form of government, religion, social groups, and even family, you can see some enforced regulation in hopes of stability and/or consistency.

Just like the body has a beating heart, a solar system has a sun, each group has a muscle that circulates/feeds nutrition.

I do not wish to wallow in the human need for regulation. Yet, I have no choice. I am not a primitive being, and the world I was born into must reach the end of its vast cycle, and die.

So, being this rogue person, and knowing that I am not the only wanderer, and seeing significance beyond a perceived god and materialism, how can I simply be?

How can anyone simply be?

I have noting to give to the regulators. And nothing about me can be forced. Because, at anytime, I can end my fragile life.
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(let us not forget the simple complexity of a salt crystal, and the pleasures its moderate use in food can bring)
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I gave up the fear of loosing my sanity, and then found a level of consciousness that I chose not to return from.

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“i have a bad cavity, i think it’s what is causing my headache.”

“damn, and those don’t go away.”

“what, the cavity?”

“yes, well, aren’t they permanent?”

“that cavity is, but the pain goes away eventually”

what created your perforated being. little holes, bacteria eating away, what cleansing proceeder could have prevented it all?

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the lists of sadness. so many. and they come to me, like foul smells in city breezes. Completely unaware, I will get a small sense of something ill, and suddenly, there, in the the particles of the air, is a bit of unpleasantness. Our hands can be locked, we can be laughing about our days, we could have just shared saliva, or a joke, but there, creeping, is a sadness that takes priority.

The sadnesses feel carefully constructed, a structure that cannot be torn down- yet was built out of air and foul smells. I come with my brick, my stones, some mud and clay, I do what I can to build a different foundation. In that moment, whatever stones
I lay will be haunted by the phantom house, the phantom structure.

Somedays there is a phantom suburbia. All I can do is try to through stones through the foggy streets, but they disappear in the mists, land, rolling, not seen.

Nine Lives of Attempted Flight II

I am not made of manure, and I cannot grow in this place. Roots, today, seem like a disgrace to the ground they burry themselves in. I’d rather be the milkweed seeds.

Standing in the spaces between cornrows, the sky it’s usual pre-winter gray, she sees old midwestern weeds bumble across the recently shorn stocks. Her bladder and bowels full, but her mind unready to return home thinks away the pressures and buys her walk a few more minutes outside. Alfresco, this could be considered the largest room to be contained in. Old telephone-pole trees stand as walls, blocking harvest devastating gusts. Here and there she spots an occasional hole, little rodent dwellings. If she were a mouse, this may be the best place to live, but then, reconsiders: the unforgiving tractors and violent upheaval of food source and coverage. Her stomach mourns the mice. She sees a dead crow, and her mind blames the farmer, without question. Her poorly covered feet move delicately over and across, her long skirt catching here and there, and her hands outstretched from her body, keeping balance and hovering above her waist. She exits the falsely protected corn field, now where last summer’s grasses were allowed to grow and die untouched. The wind, it pushes against her chest, an aggressive force grabbing her by the collar and lifting her of the ground, yet forcing her back. The skirt inflates, her legs acting like a kite frame. Her body moves from the earth in a grand arch, and as she looks down past her toes she wonders at what speed and angle she must regain gravity in order to not crash back onto earth.

A Dream for DG

Up in the Rocky mountains, somewhere along the 45th parallel, there is an isolated community built around a lake that is known for it's mythological water monster. In the winter, the lake freezes early in the season. In one night, a meter and a half of down-fluff snow lands upon every carmel-smelling pine, rustic cabin, and stone peak. The purity and dryness of the snow causes the lone body to feel warm, despite the freezing temperatures that read on the wall-thermometers.

There are fields, large flat places that are filled with veins from the water that rushes down the mountain in spring. First, though, before all the snow disappears, there is a brief thaw that melts the topmost layer of snow on this field, turning it into a crisp coating of ice. Medium-sized children and the town's dogs traverse across this crust, headed no place in particular.

Once all the frozen terrain is gone, the fields flood, harboring seasonal bird flocks. Gentle trumpeting can be heard.

The water eventually drains away, leaving empty capillaries. Soon, grasses and strange flowers grow, fast and tall from the fertile earth. A curious walker can enter into one of these capillaries, and travel under a chlorophyll canopy along a dirt labyrinth that eventually leads to a mountain foot.

As you walk through the dry stream beds, look up and see brief glimpses of sky. The tall blades of grass cast dainty shadows upon your warm arms. White cupped flowers with violets-based petals smell sweet and rich like roses, but earthier in some way. Your feet leave shallow impressions in the damp silt soil. All you can hear is wind, water over rocks from a stream you cannot see, and the beating wings of dragonflies as they pass your ears.

Nine Lives of Attempted Flight: 1

The river, dirty and full of urban run off, passes through city mostly ignored. The same color as morning cappuccinos, tinted by silt, rat carcass, car exhaust, starling shit, and Vatican dust, the Tiber flows south eventually rapping around an ancient ait associated with healing. Right before this island, (which is shaped like a ship, housing the same hospital since 1584, and goes by the name "Fatebenefratelli") there is a small cascade, a man-made crest that the water arches across. The smooth fall creates an undertow, and all things that float get trapped there. She stands watching that water. Every bottle with cap still in place, each lonely football, and pieces of wind-swept Styrofoam bob in the sunlight, churning, almost escaping towards the island, but eventually being pulled back. There was one out of place tree today, bare-barked and leafless, rotating like a cumbersome crocodile in the current. The branches of the tree kick blue water bottles away. She get’s hopeful, thinking maybe one will eventually break free. Her heart falls a little as the garbage buoy drifts back. No one else in the city seems to notice the water. People do nothing else but cross the bridge. What would it feel like to fly today? She stood on the white marble ledge; a breeze brought smells from the see and blew her hair into her eyes. None of the scooters or mini cars driving by knew who she was; even fewer people noticed the new, brightly colored and fleshy sculpture in place. She leapt. She expected that she would never reach the water. Even if she were wrong, at least she’d be caught in the whirling.

Superhero Complex

I shift between feeling that I am responsible for my world, the world, and feeling like there is no way I can be. I feel like I am on some quest of sorts, like Joan of Arc trying to lead the French to freedom. I feel like I was touched with something, some great hope and understanding to the accessibility of freedom, and I am trying to rally my fellow humans into fighting for their own liberation.

I get on my horse, I battle cry, I hear a few bellows and cheers behind me, and I look back after galloping forward to see my men arguing over syntax, talking about the laces in their boots, complimenting each other, and complaining about how oppressed they are.

I go back, I circle around, and now I feel maybe it is too much to expect them all to fight. Perhaps only a few can. I look for those who are not satisfied by the conversations, who seem restless to go again. I put that one person on the back of my horse, (that is all that can fit) and go forward again. I feel renewed. We have camaraderie, a connection, strong will. So maybe the rest of them are behind, but I am not alone, there is this one with me. I’ll show him, and he can then go back, he can tell the others. The two of us will cause a chain reaction, the inspiration will spread. Freedom will seem, once again, accessible, and there will be hope for them all to run forward again.

Oh, but the man on my horse, he loves the ride, but wants me to do all the work, he wants to peak over my shoulder, feel safe behind my armor. He is completely unaware that his back is completely exposed the whole time, where his eyes cannot see. His hands will clamor, restrict my arms, and I begin to see and know that I am hindered by the person’s presence, and that his weight makes it so I can do less for both of us- and me.

I let him off the horse. I go ahead. He is scared, out in the middle of the battle field, between the collections of men, and the place where the action is occurring. He either chooses to go back, waits, or decides to go forward on his own accord.

Where are the women? The women are too busy fighting with each other for the attention of the men, to even care about the other battles going on. They have every strength and capability, but they have two gates holding them in place instead of one. The people I am fighting put it there, the men reinforce it, and the women, mostly, stay inside.

Maybe I should just go forward, alone. But what am I fighting for if there is no one to share it with? How can I forget them all? I can’t.

I consider what happens if we all succeed. I am the loudest. They’ll burn me at the stake.

But being alone with my mind, and what I know, feels like a great irresponsibility, both to myself and them.

Where are the other Horseback riders? Why can’t we fight for all of our revolutions at once?