Thursday, May 23, 2013

Weeds


Growing up my neighbors had a perfectly manicured lawn.
No scratch that.
My Neighbors had Mani-Pedi day at the salon type lawn.
With grass so green it hurt to look at it,
Mowed so precisely it would cut your feet to walk on it.
My lawn growing up was not so.
My front yard was characterized by a tree, a couple flower beds, patches of dirt and most importantly dandelions
I loved our dandelions, they were wishes, countless wishes, which would ride winds, to find new homes and grow into the world.
They were hope incarnate,
Sticky chocolate cheeks puffed out,
A lung full of desire
And a mouthful of promise
And enough naiveté to think that a breath could speak wants into existence.

I still blow on dandelions.
In a world where wishes are rejected by realists
Where neighbors yell about flowers blown onto their lawn
Where people say “get real” but instead of it being encouragement to will wishes into reality  it is a condemnation saying settle for mediocrity
People tell me “Those are weeds, not flowers”
What defines a weed?
It grows when unwanted,
It’s tough to kill
And if you want to fit in, they’ve got to go
But if I cared about fitting in, this would be a poem about puzzles not dandelions
So let me tell you, I will blow on dandelions until age steals the breath I have
And will not only abstain from weed killers,
But will cultivate wishes for my kids
And if I look into it I will sip the wine of fermented wishes
Get drunk on possibility
And run out at night
Stage an assault on normalcy and conformity
And blow dreams and desires on to manicured lawns
And when yellow hopes blossom in emerald deserts
Someone will say “Man, those things turn up everywhere”





Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Blinded




There’s an old urban myth I know
Apparently, if you looks through a telescope at the sun
It blinds you.
Someone told me that when I was little,
And like many things one hears at a young age,
It became truth whether or not it is factual.
Sometimes, on days when the sun rises like a balloon
 that someone trusted a toddler to hold on to,
not knowing kids believe in the liberty of yellow latex,
and want nothing more than proof that things can fly,
I steal glances at the sun.
And when I look away, the sun is still printed on my vision.
So I think
If it’s true
That the sun doesn’t steal your sight if you look at it
It is simply so beautiful that looking at it so closely
Means your eyes will never want to see again.

It makes me think about you.
How after I hold your hand my fingers seem to stop working
Almost like ten digits are protesting
Telling me that they’ve found a home.
Or how food tastes like ashes in the wake of your lips
And my lungs are sanctioning oxygen since breathing you in.
And how my feet have a mind of their own,
and I can’t walk anywhere without first taking a few steps towards wherever you are

I’m not saying I’ve gone blind since looking in your eyes
But I’m saying I have found a movie I never want to stop watching there
I’m not saying I’ve gone blind since playing connect the dots with the constellations of your freckles,
But, I’m saying I’ve found a game that I will always win
I haven’t gone deaf since I heard you laugh
But I’m saying I’ve found a song with a melody that always changes and unfamiliar lyrics that I want to learn
I’m saying that ever since I saw you light up
I’ve been watching
Because I believe in the liberty of yellow latex
And proof that things can fly
And every since I started stealing glances at you
You’ve been imprinted on my eyes.