Blues for the Red White & Blue Confetti Left at the Bottom of Your Ugly Ass Coach Bag
We as a people bloom loudly. Boom, bloop, blast. Our tangled family trees, oleander & the saturated rock of our restless atmospheres in a NASA space photo where we are the smallest sweetest grains against the deciduous playrooms of the earth.
During the parades so much morale paper gets vetted for the wrong reasons. We as a people on this planet have always been profitable as our lives are compressed into shiny baubles. They especially enjoy dragging us through hot salty geysers of Acqua di Gio. After the celebration the game changers come out who have the job of making the game look like it's changed & that's
when I feel a pyrotechnic gut rot that everything I've eaten in my 33 years was actually a gun. Our metal candied behinds in the concession stands, food trucks, firearms stores, farmers markets. In the movie I'm watching right now called Election directed by Alexander Payne the star Reese Witherspoon has no chill and she reminds me of you,
the floats and stadiums strapped with hot dog people doing the wave as one of my bodies gets hoisted into the air. "Hi mom!" They scream, happy to be fenced with billions of dollars in cyber digitalis, as this video goes viral with me in the background saluting an insignificant brown middle finger at Christmas, Thanksgiving, Fourth of July, the Super Bowl, New Years Eve, etc.
Blues for Fatigued Mothers
"Tired is the world." -Etel Adnan
Red hot air balloons filled with mean little people take off from my skin. They think they are steamy. They are wrong. They are also throwing brochures about the afterlife from the flower crowned barbed wire fence over the valleys the glaciers forgot about.
If oxygen is a leisurely dreamboat I wish I were the largest port city in the world. Then I could be the fog machine of revolutionary desire coming out of their penile smokestacks without proper day time television consent, puffing away from my favorite wicker chair. A tired little housefly nonchalantly washing my face, oh so nonchalantly.
so this one time a doctor gave me a take home workbook where I outlined the cycles of how my physiological energy is dependent on All Kinds of Conglomerations of Wack Institutional Shit. There was no way I could tell this man I usually feel like the bicycle parts for some childless white girl's jaunt through another European summer.
So far in this poem I've managed to avoid talking directly about my children. However. They are now unavoidably awake in this room since the baby takes short naps & I hear him waking up so the brief personal time I have to try & describe this fatigue & the possibility of its alleviation is over so I gotta log off & maybe I'll be able to come back to myself later & isn't this one of the requirements of motherhood: sporadic interruptions of the stolen back moments of your black developing self but loving them so much the love ends up boomeranging somehow back to you anyway.
