In Telling

An old Cherokee was teaching his grandchildren about life. He said, “A battle is raging inside me - it is a terrible fight between two wolves. One wolf represents fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego. The other stands for joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, friendship, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”
The old man looked at the children with a firm stare. “This same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other person, too.”
They thought about it for a minute, and then one child asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”
The old Cherokee replied: “The one you feed.”

Staging

So I never wrote a letter when I told everyone I would.
I had nothing to say then and nothing now.

I breathe vapour, pouring into the air, lifting, pirouetting; it's a thread
-a narrative read to her, body reposed, pillowed head,
lying down later in bed. Later now isn't later dead, it's before then.

I had hoped that you would write my letters, read them to me and
to my friends; handle my voice, my sound like a dust that travels
along highways of wind, zephyr whirlpool, you the ultimate listener.

The congregation of sound: letters read upon a silver salver, dipped
in dramatic timbre rose above the sheets they dove under before.
Lifted her legs like the crescent points of that cheesy moon, flakes
before the bedsheets, before there came my voice echoed in pencil.

Lines and lines. Lines and lines more. Lines and lines some more.

So I never wrote a letter when I told myself I would.
I had nothing to say then and nothing now.

The Zooffice Episode 9: Thanksgiving Feast

It's Your Ride

I, could have known, really had the chance, expected it to come
falling down, the entire cliff side -that you were more than imaginable,
unrestrained, brazen, a real high-on-life bride.

Just let me know where you've been, I'm not asking to touch me or don't,
just let me know where you've been.
We can leave it alone, I'm sure there's someone
who knows where you've been.

But it looks like I won't be around, fixed fire burns my feet
alive, (as they were) imagine what it'll do to my heart
and half-dead mind. The boys, they bury, inhume the radicals with time.
The boys,
they bury,
inhume t
he
ra
dica
ls with ti
me.
Th
e bo
ys, th
ey b
ury, inh
ume the
 radic
als wi
th time.

Hearts Tell a Different Story

Firetruck, race car, limousine, convertible,

vacated sheath, muscle car, cop car, ramps,

a cardboard box, books, and broken axels,

spare tires, a steel toe, and the miserable.

A knife to hollow out a soul,

to cut a face with, to stab a heart.

A knife to uncover the missing

selves we only knew in part.

Uncertainty, hands upon their cold metal,

wheels atop the ground, rolling deeply

against an even bitter kitchen floor,

a clutch, neck tie, collar, ominous mettle.

A knife to hollow out a hole,

from whole and not yet all apart.

A knife to recover from abreast,

a cranium, darkly wedged leather dart.

Wails, groans, shrieks and screams,

palms raised, waving away disbelief

like a magical wand -maybe magic

will make its return -degenerate peace.

The Zooffice Episode 8: Occupy Zooffice

The Illustrator's Self Portrait

I was never good at drawing.
So I decided to speak. And I opened my mouth about things my imagination would bring: like Tyrannosaurs rampaging through Sierra Avenue and Barbee Street, or floating cities on the verge of demolition due to diabolical frenzy. And well... sometimes we don't have things. And sometimes we do. You see, a mind is an immeasurable tool -not to be confused with moments we're confused with ourselves by others who like to confuse. Really, I could draw whatever I desired -inside of my head. And when I would rest it on my pillow in bed I would remap the world as it lay this way or that. That-away and through all those colorful maps where more than just cruise ships cruise. And where bruised egos return to their drawing boards and bruise some more over liquor and booze. But then again, there wasn't anyone around to distort my imagination or my imaginary creations. And my asphyxiation wasn't abomination, it was just pure relation. And if I could, I would create it, but I can't, so I think it. I say it. But sometimes we don't have things like I said before. Nothing to label us as who we are, so we become our actions, our daily chores. Some become freeze tag, others become hop-scotch. A kid I teach is slowly becoming a shadow bozer waiting for the right uppercut. The other day, I lectured about math and geography, so the boy sitting in front of me is now becoming his parents' gardener and eventually? -Cosmology.

And there's this girl in the corner who always completes her homework -she's becoming a lawyer I tell her. She'll become an information technology consultant, a doctor, practitioner, or an architectural engineer, hell... But she corrected me when I asked her. She said that she's just working on being herself.