Monday, February 01, 2010



It is the memory of the folding chair.
The lily bursting open in a song.
It is the memory of who you are.
It is the memory of myself.
I am not forgotten.
I have not been forgotten.
All of mankind holds grudges-
China, Germany, England, France,
Old women wear top hats and
Laugh uproariously at nothing.

We are not in Nottingham.
You speak when none speaks.
I glimmer down sad mountains.
The mountains is made up of water,
Water is the core of our DNA.
We speak truth.
We are truth.
Truth is etched, carved in the doorways of time.
Carved in the doorways of nothing.
Some people hate.
Dr. King, Malcolm X, Gandhi,
Except Gandhi roared at lions.
Hatred burns the flesh.
It tears the flesh in two.
Sometimes, the flowers are withered
And we can’t find ourselves without looking
Backwards, without glancing outside of time.

Sometimes, golden mountains rise out of nothing.
Sometimes, we are dead when we are alive.
I chose to be neither.
I am the neither.
We break bones over sad mountains.
The fir tree glistens in the sun.
The sun is a diamond.
Mommy, are we there yet?
Mommy, are we in cars?
Father this; Daddy that;
No time to ourselves.
I am sitting in a chair, reading the newspaper-
My teacher, Mr. Allen,
The man who breaks cars,
Stole Haiti and gave it back.
He is enraged his child is ill.
He is enraged about a lot of things.
Only a flower can calm him down.
Only the folding of a flower and the opening of it.
We are flowers folding inward and outward.
He feels he is forgotten.
I never spoke the word that lingers
In me, of stardust and words-
We speak of bones. We dream of bones. He can’t find me.
It tears him down like the moon is torn down.

His child is ill because she does not speak.
He is angry about a lot of things.
Haiti falls on his lips.
Here is the hatred of himself, the flower opening
And closing.
And the hatred of Haiti.

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