Bebo

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	A clutter of Memorabilia ...
	Lines this space that is my secret Home within me: Spinning at the core of the moon Read and Red Stored in boxes Unlabeled and moth eaten I am afraid to look At the curves of thigh in the crescent smile In case I remember too much joy. To forget Is to will yourself to remember Less than you would like: To pretend that the world is not flat Or opaque or endless. For lovers lost There is a road less traveled. To simply say I am sorry as real as the rain is knives Slicing into skin Into flesh and bone Clean and painless. Yes. I am sorry. As the rain is soft And gentle And I find a rolled up mat And a newspaper clipping In which I am smiling At someone I don’t remember But touching lives Can never have no meaning unless You forget. To say that we Break our own hearts Is not a lie: To touch the reflection Of the woman That I was That I chose not or to be Requires a mirror Alas! Mine are all broken. So she buys a photograph Of a stained glass window In a church That is less mine than it is real And it is dark and light Compressed into a pin prick moment That I can truly say Was Godless or God filled Or something like it. I find the Koran in my father And he- it speaks volumes Of truth and endless love As does the bible mother earth That she is not But we see them as they were never But a few And they see us As we really are; Judging them Quietly In a volume of noise. We sit and talk culture Fading into a Blurred sunset Of concrete dreams Green as our aid As our seas As our children And the white in the room Feels alone Unwanted And we forget in this colored conversation Of colored people That white is a color too. She is sad as the sunshine Reflecting in the morning dew I think she’s just afraid to live. I remember a laufala slipper That Cinderella never wore To church or siva But it was sold Without a pair In the market. I look for it still in the ocean Collecting pearls That I throw to the wind In search of swine. Jealously I sip the wine That falls from your lips And kiss you with a passion That is unlike Anything I can touch. To chose to live Is to die A million deaths Of wrongful truths And I am still waiting For the shoe to fit the other foot But my feet are big And I may be waiting a while. He smiles - the philosopher I helped Create Another life. And I know Tomorrow becomes a yesterday To the day after I grow older and younger still As my bones age into womanhood: And I ease myself into my body My children are the keepers of my soul Safely locked in a brightness That covers the world I see wings on words And words on waves. That crash downwards Into my head And the world is alight Never again To be the beginning Of a woman Singing sweetly A song that has no sound But tears and silence And so we dance. In a rainbow that is silver as it is black She is kohl in the moonlight Surrounded by crystals that hum And she is the words Spoken and misunderstood Unspoken and never forgotten And she is young As blood is life. Until unless is a moment Of moon and tongue he says Sweetly A thrust as gentle as a blade As permanent as a twist of fate In the chest A blow That sends the stars reeling for the hills Between legs that are trees And brown as they are windows To water in rocks And ocean, Until unless is a moment You cannot breathe. And I am still holding my breath Waiting for Jesus to come And I am the sinner Washing his feet To be remembered by all as the whore. We sit with coffee and exhaust fumes At the ROC And she walks by Asian young female Black pants Blue and white kimono sky on her cream body And slit eyes Hair hanging long to the right Shaven to left But it is the parrot on her head That is green and yellow feathers That reminded me I wanted to dance. My mother weeps for no reason Insanity becoming old age Laughter locked somewhere in childhood Where she was beautiful And I no longer the child she wanted. The road ribbons into a past In which I could be But I am not. To forget Is to will yourself to remember Less than you would like: To pretend that the world is not flat Or opaque or endless. In case I remember too much joy. I am afraid to look At the curves of thigh in his crescent smile In this space that is my secret Home within me: Spinning at the core of the moon Read and re-read and crimson red Stored in boxes Unlabeled and moth eaten A clutter of Memorabilia (c) CFKOYA/September 29, 2006
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