i hunger for a fork in the road,
stuck in the juicy meat of life,
leading to fields dripping
with inspiration’s sweet honey,
a dazzling smorgasborg of lovers
and art. why do i settle
for the comfortable known,
rather than toss my plate aside
and take that amazing dish
at the other table
it is numbing following
expectations from my mother
and her mother and her mother,
spaghettified knots of silver
and wood embued with memories
trapped on the walls, in the
cupboards, wending their way
through my conciousness like
starchy, sticky ghosts.
you don’t like to share.
not what is deep inside you,
entrenched in your core –
hidden truth squirming
uncomfortably in your gut.
your pathos and pathology
from unknown sources –
at least, to the outside.
inside, your manipura,
starving for action, aching
for movement, to be free,
lashing out at its captor,
tears at its coils and knots.
your ailment is peculiar
to you because you made it
with your fears, shackled
it in your guts, left it
unspoken to run wild
with your knowing.
That was but a prelude; where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people also
the wind held its breath
as they came for Marx,
and Heine, and Mann,
ripped from homes,
torn from eyes and minds.
we held our breath
as they threw their bodies
of work on the pyres,
saw their spines broken,
their verboten words crackle
into the air, smoldering stars
filling the dark night sky.
in silence we wondered,
what would come next.
in this analog, high fidelity life
pulsing at the intersection
of intention and expectation
i recoil at the absurdity
of decomposing our chimerical lives
down to disconnected sinew and bones
laid against rulers, flesh
and blood filling scales, and
the unraveling billions of neurons
into simple yes or no checkboxes.
are you male or female? gay or straight?
do you believe in god? are you married?
how can we dehumanize ourselves
into neat little boxes with labels
and expect to be understood
or cared for as more than just a part,
roboticly analyzed for imperfection
and impassionately cast aside
if we do not qualify against
ever changing standards.
she is there, i can see her, her gaze
transfixed, fingers curled and knotted
around glass and metal, belie her
presence. her forlorn children give
sorrow-filled glances longing for
approval,or even just a sign that she knows
they are there. each tap of her finger
on the glass releases a slow drip
of dopamine into her cerebral cortex
and numbs her senses, blocks out the noise
and clamour and yearning of small hands.
read it. like it. pin it. tweet it.
tap tap tap.
8 tablespoons of Grødris (rice)
4 cups milk
3 tablespoons vanilla sugar
2 1/4 cups whipping cream
1 cup finely chopped almonds
1 whole almond, for the prize
dusting of cinnamon
Cook the rice with anticipation.
Let the scent of cream and sugar rise
into the air. Mix with childhood memories.
I can still taste my mother’s memories –
perfect holidays far from home,
away from her own unwed mother,
free of burden and shame.
I can feel her glowing as she would
take that first bite and let the
sweet sugar excite her tongue.
I still see her squirming in her chair
like a little girl who was once happy
with her favorite treat, and herself.
Sometimes I hold my breath around
vanilla sugar, afraid of my tears,
and sometimes I breathe it in
so deep that she still feels
alive inside of me