What I Remember

The amber colored African rooboi is marinating the dry and hollow cinnamon sticks that are cracked into pieces like 250 year old bones
spicy slices of ginger floating like a bobber in the tea
We all sit around the table, that surely was handcrafted, because nothing here is done lazily
The table sits behind a large window that is like a magnifying glass to the world
The bullfinch go about eating and fighting
We watch the Irish sun peek it’s head from behind the gray clouds
Then we watch it retract and then rain comes down
It serves as a wonderful backdrop to our table time together
Everyone is lathering different condiments on bread as if we are evening out icing on a top layer of a cake
Reaching and passing items across the table like moves in a sports game
Chatting about our differences because we are actually interested
Each of us noticing how different we are
She speaks to me in English with a German accent and then speaks German to me and thinks it’s English, we laugh
He plays pool with me over a few Guinness and provides instructions on how to make the perfect fire
He explains in his Western Irish Accent that the heat source of the fire is it’s heart
I find it endearing that the fire has a heart and all of a sudden it’s alive
I slowly feed it small pieces of wood because I never want anything to die that has a heart
The day I left I cried. And now I see why.

The words come out over a cell phone
I don’t have to convey a convincing expression
No one can see my face except the drivers passing by in their car
I just have to say what I have to say in a reassuring voice
A voice that assures me that what I’ve just said was true
I believe what I am saying because, I can be convincing
So believable that I’m a believer, not a griever
I say I don’t care, I care more than I don’t
And I say a sentence out loud as if saying it aloud makes it go away
Like a chant copied from a children’s book makes it go away
I’m sad.
Not because I want to be there but because I am not
A melting of genes, a combination of skin
A gurgle, a word, a movement of a leg
Something that’s mine that I leave behind

Roommates

A shag McDonalds bag is the rug on our floor
In a few days I won’t live here anymore
Won’t live where I can stay up all night
Exchanging ideas and thoughts we have on life
Things that cross our mind from day to day
Expressions we had that we now can explain
They will be syndicated shows playing in my head
Shows that I love to watch while I’m lying in bed
Times that won’t happen anymore
Soon constructing itself to be history

Another Lost Art

The crisp piece of paper will never meet ink from a pen
There will be no beginning, there will be no end
Nothing to read later to bring a smile to my face
People will be forgotten gone without a trace
No personal touch on anything that can be recognized that a person ever existed
Who needs a stamp when the emails listed
Can’t dust for finger prints or see a finger print smudge
They’re will be no scratching out or mistakes you can not budge
No anticipation of something coming in the mail
You won’t be able to unfold paper and I don’t think it’s fair
Those extra steps taken sometimes mean more than what’s inside the envelope
Even if what’s written doesn’t make me laugh, even if it’s a bad joke
A chain letter or whatever it still took effort
Something I think in which we should find pleasure
Pleasure in the beginning or maybe the end or maybe in the body
Or maybe the color of the pen
The pen that you bought so you could write what you thought
To someone that obviously meant a lot

Skinny Dipping

Grains of sand hitch a ride on legs and feet
As I’m running to where Me and the ocean meet
I’m not alone either but I don’t care
This is the feeling I love and is why I’m running bare
The way I got here, just skin and hair
And I like it best when I just don’t care
The calendar pages make a ripping sound
As they’re thrown away, thrown out of this house
To remind you that it’s been a long while
Since I haven’t cared what pops in peoples minds…
There’s a freedom gene that grants a wish
Only on his own time when he’s not being squished
In his own world that sometimes seems like mine
he grants me freedom some of the time
And all though it’s only some of the time
It’s honestly just enough for me not to lose my mind
He leaves me after his work is done
He goes back to his world and I in mine
As I wait by the clock for him to arrive

Fear of Failing

She sits on the stool in the low lit room
While the ceiling fan chops the window in half
The window that’s across the street
That is really not cut into two
And with each gap in the fans propellers
you see that it is still a whole window
She is in a live picture
With a shiny black picture frame
With light that trickles down, down on her face
she is hoping that it is not shinning a spot light on the evidence of age
That lay below her eyes, that show her she is not immortal
And will be getting older with every day that passes
While she’s on the stool she’s nervous
And excited at the same time
It seems those two feelings always like to hang out together
Just like inseparable best friends
The girl starts to speak, her voice nasally and quivering
The thing that lets people know that it is her
Not a girl that looks like her
She wants people to like what she has to say
She wants to be listening to something worth hearing
And she wonders what are they thinking
What are you thinking?

Identity Crisis

Am I a banana or a plantain?
Will someone please explain
What is the difference between both of us?
Is it even something to be discussed?
Do I come from Brazil or maybe from the states?
Am I as sweet as I think I am, maybe I’m really tart
Are we identical twins, hard to tell apart?
Should ice cream be added and I be split?
Or am I something hearty, to be cooked and dipped
Does it even matter when our destiny’s the super mart?
I’m just matter put into a cart
To be used and abused, with nothing left to do
Go along with what’s going on… no room to refuse
The destiny that’s awaiting me is the same no matter what I am
Whether is to be spoiled and thrown away or eaten by a man