Connected

Streets empty with sunlight, birdsong,

and the sound of wheels on the road.

I stop at a store.

Five apricots and a tomato.

The saleswoman offers to wash them before she puts them in a bag for me.

On my way to the cemetery I eat the apricots first. 

One by one. They look ripe but they aren't.

 

A dog starts barking behind a fence 

“ Beware! Unknown human heading south, eating a tomato!”

The dog-network is activated, and now all bark at nothing.

The  path leading to the family crypt is scattered with pine cones. 

A wild rosebush curiously  leans over the headstone this any-day afternoon. 

I wander around the back and see it sprung from the old crypt—

perhaps from my mother’s heart.

I imagine the quiet union of caskets and roots. 

Maybe violets grow down there all year around.

My parents, having an afternoon tea, talking about all the things 

they forgot to tell me.

I pull out the stubborn weed growing through the cracks—

some humble openings into the otherworld.

I feel appreciated.

I feel loved. 

Nobody Says Hello

I walk in the rain. 

On the Danube, 

the many bridges fade into fog.

Nothing gets done. 

Nothing is never important enough.

The lines are down— 

no banking, no activation, no phone—

Promising for this misty afternoon.

A retro cheese melt and a cup of espresso

on the road.

Hellos and goodbyes come with 

the lifting of the fog.

La Salle des pas Perdu

‘ The room of lost steps’ is what they call

‘ waiting room’ in French.

Another ticket expires

come midnight.

To get a new one every morning to a destination, a mindset,-

and for each, we pay a different price. 

“ Mom, I think if you could, you would live inside your soul.”

We  wait.

IT

 

‘Sit down,’ I say, ‘sit down and think about it.’

‘About what?’ 

‘It.’ 

 

There was a time you look back and think, "Yep, that was perfect."

And it was! And you know it.

 

There was that moment when you said to yourself, "Oh my god, 

the street I live on should be named after me! I can’t believe I did it."

 There was a day when you saw her making the right decisions without you,

and you were sad and happy about it. Mostly, you were proud.

 

There was a night when being the night itself was just another dream.

It was what it was. It is, what it is.

 

There was a whole year when you thought you lost the will to live,

but you made it through and lived anyway.

 

There was an afternoon when you asked for what you wanted with no agenda, 

and it was given to you. 

 

The timeline is a jump rope. 

Jump, jump, jump.

 

Nobody is really watching. They might be curious, you might want— not 

so much to be accepted, but to be seen, understood, acknowledged. Forget 

it. As long as you’re jumping.

 

Did the world skip rope a year and tripped over checks and balances, data, and facts? 

 

True Zen. I mean, in this world, in this cocoon of a home, 

in this body, in these cells, inside this mind, there are question marks, laughing monkeys 

and sad ones, a few terrified ones that keep pulling the tails of the others, 

but the others choose not to give them the time of day. 

 

It makes sense.

.

Words alone 

mean

nothing.

We  are 

the chance,

the will,

the magic.

With every breath,

we forge another eye to the chain

of hope.

Routine

Monday to Sunday,

I stare through the window,

for a view —

a glance of wholeness.

The rain writes legends on the roof

in a pitter-patter Morse code.

Dreams drag out dragons riding the

half moon in broad daylight.

Three Dimensions

‘Read some of these music magazines’,-he said with eyes that never looked straight into hers-almost as if saying to keep herself busy. Then he turned around and all she could see was his back and the blue towel wrapped around his skinny waist, heading to the bathroom. The stack of yellow-framed magazines lay next to her body on the floor.
She only looked at the cover, and left the stack unopened. She longed for his presence instead of reading about music. The feeling she fell in love with.  She wanted to be around that feeling forever- like seasons are around, changing as the hair turns grey and the eyes wrinkle.

She wasn’t ever ready to give herself fully;  she wanted to blend, rather than belong. The days went past the streets of harlequin strangers she nominated as a possibility.

***

‘Read some of these music magazines’, he said with eyes that looked straight into hers-almost as if saying that she needed to catch up with the latest news to be more interesting. Then he turned around and all she could see was his dark birthmarks and the blue towel around his waist, heading to the bathroom.

She only looked at the cover, and tossed the stack on the side. She didn’t care about the stupid magazines on the stupid floor and she felt as if all for seasons shut down and she wished the shower was just as frozen as his heart.

She was ready to give herself fully: she wanted to belong. All of a sudden she found herself longing for the days when she danced with harlequin strangers wherever she went.

***

‘Read some of these music magazines, he said with eyes almost apologetic- as if saying he’d rather stay laying next to her. Then he gently tucked her hair from one side to another, turned around and all she could see was the blue towel around his waist and his strong back heading to the bathroom.

She curiously laid her hand on the magazines and looked into the first one on the top of the stack. She felt the same way about the magazines, the movement of his shadow behind the shower-curtains, the seasons changing, every new wrinkle and every grey hair that grew along with this love.

She was herself.