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The Homeless man
There on the corner of hunt road was where I first encountered this homeless man with a smile, carrying a very artsy board articulating his personal struggle. I cannot remember anything else about that day: where I was going or what I was wearing or who I was with. I do not even remember the day itself, instead he comes to me like a misleadingly wrapped gift. I do, however, remember looking at him and wondering why he was smiling. Why was this homeless man smiling? What was there for him to smile about? I must have seen this man many times, and the same thought occurred to me over and over again.
And then I moved out of that area and did not see him for a long time, maybe a year or two. When I saw him again my circumstances had changed. For the first time in my life I had a car, and just enough money to be trapped in needing wants. I was somewhere in the middle of a murder of automobiles, a red dot in the not to near distance signalling all the time I felt I wasting. The car in front of me was hooting and the driver was screaming some profanity. I saw him and his artsy board then, and I felt so many things, I felt so many things at this inappropriate time. He looked the same as he had when I had first seen him a few years earlier: Happy. In that moment it was like everything else had stayed the same and I was only thing that had changed. The situation was the painting and I was the painter. I remember how foolish the man in the car in front of me now seemed, and how foolish I actually was. I looked at the homeless man and I saw all the things I didn’t have, and all the things I had, all things I wanted so badly. All the things that I worried about seemed unimportant, shallow, irrelevant. Here I was in my car, on my way from university to my flat worrying about my university marks, and the man who didn’t love me back, and the man I didn’t love back, and why I was such a crappy mother. I looked at him and I wondered why I wasn’t smiling.
I always give homeless people money, I like to think that I do it because I want to help them, help the world. But think I actually do it to validate and perpetuate my consuming delusion that I can change the world. One day as I opened the window to give a homeless child money for the hundredth time, my cousin said to me “you can’t save the world”. I am generally sensitive but on this day, that comment was a knife through my heart, it brought me gut-wrenching disappointment. I am now learning that loving this world without trying to fix it is a much more fulfilling and conscious (and probably considerably more difficult) endeavor.
I have looked for that man every time I am at that robot, which is almost every day and I have not seen him. If I am honest with myself, this bothers me deeply. How is it that I never got the chance to tell him how incredibly profound he was.
*This is the first short story I’ve written, its been quite the task getting myself believe in my talent enough to try new things so I’m pretty excited. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Shallow Breathing
Why do I run?
I feel that I do not deserve you.
Actions, affections, chores,
and probably all our time
contorts itself gruesomely
to fit in to the box that
I have labelled motherhood.
The box burdened
to my mother and
hers before her and all the mothers
that gave rise to me.
And the box seems to get smaller
the more we fight it,
the more guilt we feed it.
I was not ready
but then again
when are we ever ready?
Ready to find out that nothing
will ever be the same again.
That it can no longer be about us,
and that now our entire existence
is woven into much more than
we had bargained for on that night
when the rage of carnal desire
silenced every other voice in our minds.
and then there you were
with tears in your eyes
and on your cheeks,
and I thought it was a miracle
that your barely formed voice
could make all that noise.
Hands shaking,
mind buzzing,
heart pounding
because his little nose
and his toes and fingers
and the thought of his little
heart beating
makes you wonder if you’ve
actually been alive up until
this point.
Now, 2 months before you turn 4,
I realize that I was never
running from you.
I was running, I’ve been running
from myself and all the things
that I’ve choked to sleep in my mind
and in my soul so that I can cope.
My new definition of the word cope:
chocolate without cocoa,
the sea without salt,
air without oxygen,
life without living.
You and I
will never embody
the ideals of the perfect
mother-son relationship.
Not because we can never be perfect
but because these ideals,
formed and perpetuated by society
(which includes you and I),
are a gross violation of all
that is natural and beautiful
between mother and child.
I am mother and you are child.
I do not use your or my because
our existences can not be
woven into each other.
*”It is my first time being a mother.
It is your first time being a child”
and finally I understand that
we can just be.
*A quote from my aunt Clare Parsons
This is the second poem I wrote about my fears and facing them.
Suffocation
Suffocation:
- To kill by stopping breathing of or by depriving oxygen to breathe.
- To die from being unable to breathe.
Perhaps one of the most involved,
active methods of killing.
Suffocation requires persistence:
you watch the victim struggle,
fight for their life.
Ability to receive love: suffocated by mother.
Ability to trust men: suffocated by father.
strangulation during pregnancy: perpetrated by father of baby.
Now you tell me that my emotions
are suffocating you. Please refer to “perhaps one of …”.
So what you intend to tell me
is that my emotions are depriving you of oxygen,
fatally hindering your breathing,
embodying sufficient loathing to watch you struggle
while they choke the life out of you.
I need you ( due to daddy/mommy/self issues)
I don’t want to need you,
never needed anyone this way before.
Never feared losing anyone this much before.
Hence here we both are,
necks held angrily by my unrelenting,
inconsistent emotions.
When I look at you
I’m up in the clouds
but now I wonder:
when you look at me
are you in the depths of the ocean?
Lungs filling with water.
I know you love the ocean
but never underestimate it’s power
to suffocate by drowning.
I am being suffocated by my fear
of losing you.
*Written as a part of a series of poems I am writing about my fears and facing them.
African Lips
His lips, big African lips
like his mother carried
water on her head and his father
father wore animal skin.
Like when he was in
his mothers womb, those lips
gave rise to the rest of him.
His lips are, simultaneously,
all the tears of June 16
and all the euphoria of April 26.
You see, he thinks I don’t know
but oh I know how much he
hides behind those lips,
behind his gated teeth
that cage his tongue
and I know he wont like
me saying these things
but I have to
because I want him to know
that I know what he
thinks I don’t know because
somehow in my fixer mind
this means I love him,
because for the first time
I don’t want to fix someone.
I just want to lay on his chest
as it hungrily consumes his
heart beat, leaving crumbs of him
all the way to my soul that stores
him in glass and titanium so he’ll
never leave.
In that moment I am reminded
that I am the one who needs
fixing. But also that no matter
how many times my jagged edges
draw blood,
he will always have enough left over
to rap for me,
to help me put on my shoes,
to get mad at me for falling asleep,
to wipe my tears away.
His lips, big African lips
that reverberate with the
beat of a thousand drums
and the silence of a
thousand thousand tree’s.
His lip, dipped in the red river
of the struggles of being black,
his lips pour out the struggle of
being human.
I think pour is the wrong word:
his lips tornado out the struggle
of being human.
And in a gust of lyrical genius
he unknowingly, intricately
reveals to me the struggle of being
a black man, loving a fair skinned
woman.
And in a gust of lyrical genius
he gently, lovingly peels back
the layers of me only
stopping so we can breathe,
so he can remind me why he
loves each divergently.
His lips, big African lips
are the perfect contrast
between naive hope and
cynical pessimism.
He thinks I don’t
see the light dancing in his iris’s
which is weird for me:
its the only thing
keeping me from complete darkness.
He thinks I don’t see the
labyrinth of darkness
woven delicately into his pupils
which is weird for me:
every single cell in my body
understands the dark.
This is not to say that
I understand his darkness,
only that I appreciate its
ironic incandescence.
I can lead us both through
the darkness, with the light
from his eyes.
His lips, big African lips
inhale, exhale
regale the tale of a
child, never held, but always loved.
Of a mother strong but rigid.
Of sisters always loving, never loved.
Of an angry black man with
dreams that society refuses to
make room for or understand.
Of a black man who can do anything
but wants to do the one thing he’s
told he can’t do.
Of a black man in the struggle
of consciousness.
His lips, big African lips
that blow metaphorical kisses
at thick women,
that plant literal kisses
on my inner thigh
and I have to sigh:
among all the toxicity
in the lungs of society
he is the perfect dose
of oxygen.
The Struggle
The struggle is consciousness.
The evolution of your knowing
who you want to be
but never quite being able to get there.
The heavy chested disappointment
of knowing who you are not.
The struggle is consciousness.
All these questions!
Am I asking the correct questions?
accepting that some questions,
no matter how debated,
will never have answers.
Realizing that everything is subjective.
The struggle is consciousness.
With it comes endless introspection
made more difficult by a society
that that condemns it.
and the struggle is the dreamless.
Those who passively accept,
ask no questions, hear only lies,
are diseased by their closed minds.
the struggle is consciousness.
Acknowledging that there is no definition,
accepting that it can never
be reached in its entirety.
Understanding that one understands
nothing.
Understanding that one understands
everything.
Realizing that one is nothing.
Realizing that one is everything.
Bearing the burden of bringing
consciousness to others.
The struggle is consciousness.
Wondering whether it is a kalopsia or
whether is it orphic
beyond human understanding.
The struggle is consciousness.
You May be a Kalopsia
I want to find my way back to you.
The you you were when
We were at the park
And your head was in my lap
And we were speaking about poetry
And music and life and all the things
We hoped we would be
And all the things we hoped
We would change.
I want to find my way back to you.
The you you were when
You held my hand
And walked proudly with me
In the mall to help me buy groceries.
When you pushed the trolley
And I pretended I was concentrating
On the difference in the prices of coffee
When I knew damn well that all I could think was:
“He is here with me”.
I want to find my way back to you.
The you you were
When we spoke about my writing
The you that made me feel like
The conciousness of the whole
World was at the tip on my tongue.
The you who made me want to write
And made me believe I could write.
I want to find my way back to you.
The you you were
After our bodies were exhausted
By the explosions that had consumed
Us. And we were candid and open and brutally
Honest about things we lied to ourselves
About everyday. The you that opened my mind
To things my heart had hidden away.
The you that was my sweet escape
The you that I wanted to be my forever
The you that felt like home.
How do I get back to that you?
When you are so many different things?
When you break me, where you know I have been broken before?
When you lie?
When you make me cry? All the tears.
When you make me second guess everything
That I though was true because
How the fuck could I have been
So incredibly wrong about you.
Can you get back to something
You aren’t sure was ever really there?
The Question
In these times of solitude and seclusion
Where my mind is plagued by dejection and confusion
Where my soul is experiencing unrivaled desolation
But is also impregnated with sentimental incarnation.
My emotions are like all the colours at full brightness
All the hues between darkness and lightness
All the shades between blackness and whiteness.
I feel everything at its most vivid intenseness.
Somehow I am simultaneously apathetically empty
Every breath of every minute a disembodied formality
Everything an emotionless mix of alkalinity
Living the same day in perfect circularity.
At the place where emotional and emotionless meet
I am stuck between what’s contemporary and what’s obsolete.
There is a question in which I have found only defeat.
Freedom from turmoil is in this question:
Who is love and who is a lesson?
Caraphernalia
I refuse to keep any of it anymore.
I don’t want your pictures
And I don’t want the lighter you gave me
You can have my brush, it’s full of your hair anyway.
Take back your denim jacket,
I hope the smell of my perfume never washes out.
I am returning the scent you have left
On my pillow and on my sheets and in my room.
Take back all the dreams you gave me the courage to follow
You can have back all the hours that felt like seconds
Take back rap music and hip-hop
Take back the beach
No one can ever take me there again
Because every wave that breaks upon the shore
Will take me back to you.
Take back consciousness
And I don’t want Paulo Coelho anymore either.
Take back all the poetry I have written
And all the poetry I’m going to write
The whole fucking lot of it is about you anyway.
Take back the teeth marks you left on my skin
The ones that made me smile for weeks after.
In retrospect, you can have the smile to
I’m not really using it anymore anyway.
I’m drowning in your memories, in this saudade nightmare of all we are not, all we could have been.
These things that you’ve left me with keep me in a nostalgic depravity
My soul can’t take another moment of falling into your gravity.
Innocence II
In the incandescence
Of a cheap candle
She blinks lazily.
The bed holds her
Like her own mother did
What feels like a million
Years ago.
When her soul was
Flowered by the innocence of childhood
And her spirit woven by vitality.
It will burnout,
As it always does,
She thinks.
And a fiery, dreamless sleep
Takes over.
Behind impeccant eyelids
Eyes that have only seen wonder
Sleep peacefully
Stirring only when
There is a disturbing fusillade.
Or when he dreams.
when he fly’s too high
Or when he feels the spray of the sea.
But suddenly
The sea is on fire
And he can’t get away.
And there is an inferno
In his tiny lungs
And the air is like fuel.
He can not escape.
His wings can no longer carry him.
It was supposed to be a dream.
But then he allowed the fire
To get to the bed
And now everything
Is consumed by
Angry flames.
The words are trapped
In his tiny throat
All that can escape when he screams:
“Mama”
And she wakes
To a holocaust.
*the second poem I’ve written as a dedication to the burned baby, whose case I assisted with
In My Shoes 