Zigzag

I walk with abandon.

A modern dance teacher,

the one who taught me

how to roll into the floor

and extend through space,

how to lean into a pelvis

and support a very tall man

with my very little frame,

the teacher who equalized

my playing field,

the one who helped

ground me as she freed me

from corporeal restraints,

the one who came closest

to teaching me to fly,

this teacher,

whom I adored,

told me

that people

who cannot

walk

straight,

but zigzag

through life,

these people

are free spirits.

I cannot

walk in a straight line.

Reality Check

Lying on my side in the moss,
surrounded by trees of an unknown origin,
curled around the life inside me,
I discover I am not,
in fact,
pregnant with a vampire,
despite what the witch
with the long, blonde hair
told me before she effervesced.

Within seconds,
I have found my way out of the woods,
and I walk by a decrepit pool,
oddly surrounded by extended family members,
and find myself locked in a bathroom
with a boy named Avery,
and, as it is with these kinds of things,
I know without a doubt
that we are too young to be kissing
and it will only lead us astray.

Under the light grey sky that promises rain,
I sit at a desk outdoors and call the wrong name,
but the boy who seems to love me appears anyway
and reminds me of his real name,
much like the tales of Rumpelstiltskin;
he walks from the bathroom,
along the pool edge,
toward the outdoor desk
with promises in his eyes.
 
Jauntily strolling along 1st Ave,
greeted by Lil' Frankie's chalkboard,
"I can still taste you when we're apart,"
(who is in charge of those messages?!)
dancing through the music permeating
the park, blasted by SMAC,
I place my hand on my stomach,
seized by the vaguely discomfiting
memory of a disappearing witch,
relieved by reality
as the sun beats down
promising a new day
free from walking dreams.

"We"

She steps into the fog
that blankets Gotham,

moving forward by touch,

hands outstretched.

If she blindly trusts

that the wind
cannot lead her,

she will discover that baby steps

are breath-taking strides
toward adulthood.

She will step into the waiting

of the welcome unknown

and find his outstretched arms.

Their palms will touch,
a gentle hello of warmth,

the whisper of a memory,
a spirit's embrace.

She couldn't have guessed
that he, too, had been faithfully
combing the clouds
hovering over their city

blissfully dormant in the downpour.

"I've been looking for you," he says,

"I thought you were gone."

"Not gone, lost" she replies,

"But now I am found."

"We are found," he whispers.

"We," she acknowledges,

gently exhaling 

the new word

into being.

Lightly lined hands
hovering over one another,
fingertips humming
with a promise of tomorrow,

they step back into the fog,
and find their way.  

City of Dis

Three yellow cabs
hang from the ceiling
temporarily devoid of mania,
strangely lifeless,
waiting to be released back into mayhem,
occupied by one who dares the city to stop him.

The fluorescent lights of the overpriced Taxi Tune-Up
shine a beacon into the gently misting rain,
soft drops so imperceptible
they nearly, just nearly, glance off your body
but instead ever so subtly settle into your hair, your cheeks, your bones,
quietly drenching you
before you even manage to realize
that you should've used your hot pink umbrella
to shield you from the inevitable cold.

Standing on the edge,
you simply have to place one foot in mid-air -
the other will naturally follow -
to get yourself off of the black stoop,
off of this single step hidden between red walls
shielded by a hard, black awning,
colors that evoke a harlot's secret,
nested across from the lair of the club
that has cloaked itself in security cameras
that dare anyone to mess with those
who chose to join Lucifer
to defend the City of Dis.

Small rat people escape tin cans
that run through sewers,
with heads down they scurry
cloaked in suits,
leather jackets,
taupe dresses covered in the word 'love'
(as if sheer will power can create it),
fur coats
(no, wait, the fur coats exit the manic cabs),
elaborate outfits constructed of newspaper
(a fallen artist's lament),
blue and green striped blazers
donned by mini humans with hair the color of cotton candy,
sunshine, shoeblack, dirt...
they all rush to return to their 4x4 spaces
filled with the absence of desperation
and consequently worth every penny.

Pigeons

feathers

stuck to the underside of tar, 

wings separated, useless...

You could peel them off the pavement and paste them back together,

stick them to your arms 

and fly too close to the sun - 

do what Icarus did.

this desire to fly that we harbor,

the one that drove Icarus higher and higher, 

our innate need to defy gravity 

that the Wright brothers semi-conquered,

that caused Neil Armstrong to stand on the moon 

(despite what those conspiracy theorists would have us believe), 

it comes from a memory, our spirit's memory.

sometimes I fly in my sleep. 

i have been told not everyone can fly. 

i need a running start or i land in a swamp,

my mind battling the constraints

of my corporeal self

rooting us to the earth. 

if I am already in water when my flying self awakens, 

i usually can't find my way out;

luckily I can always touch the reeds with my feet,

so I never drown.

have you ever noticed, in New York City,

that pigeons rarely succumb to yellow cabs? 

  

Sortir

"Avoid Exit," she read,
and she stepped into the deluge.
The siren blared behind her -
the rude echo of an emergency -
the door ajar.

Blinking rapidly,
she detached herself
from the neon sign and slipped into the freezing rain, palms upward,
arms outstretched.

If she could just stand there, undiscovered,
awash in the blinding glow
of the locked Chipotle,
stacked stools patiently
awaiting tomorrow's victims,
she would figure out the answer.

influx of peace

palms spread

skyward,

open in meditation,

asking for breath -

the influx of peace -

she paused.

she could detect him

at the edge of her vision,

hovering his hand over top of her palm,

reassuring,

but not touching, not yet,

waiting.

the whisper of a promise,

the moment of serenity

experienced behind closed eyes

meditating on a body

reverberating with the remnants

of low moans

from the Tibetan Singing Bowl.

“Wait,” he said,

and she knew he was coming.

eyes wide shut,

body reverberating,

she paused.

“Wait,” he said.

he was coming,

if she could just wait.