I’m from One-Thousand, Nine-hundred and Eighty-Four dreams to fruition; dreams altered, dreams bloodied, dreams mesmerized, dreams still to fruition
I am from 25-years of complexity
And 27-years of simplicity
I am a rifle dusty with fingerprints tucked under a bed, attached to the hip, protected by a hair trigger
I am from eyes that stare back from a gray now beige picture that sometimes resents time more so than age.
I am from a runaway from a nameless town tucked behind trees where you can still hear cattle scream even though the house has burned down.
I am from a Harlem skirt smacking tradition of young gals who take pistols to church and don’t mince words because they walked out of tobacco fields with ‘a bushel / and a peck / and a hug around the neck…’
‘…Yes I do love you too,’ but tea for the fever never released the connection to vanishing fathers, and fathers trying to do better.
I am from changing weather in a nurturing pasture of brick and mortar.
Smoke of one hand typing gave birth to Skyping
While I was obsessed with Facebook, I started seeing Twitter
And I am a would-be writer having an affair with science-fiction though I vowed to remain true to what first sparked talent in me
Poetry
I am poetry, slammed in iambic pentameter with no harmony but a perfect rhyme scheme who repeats mistake like a villanelle because I can’t remain faithful since I don’t have the self-esteem to say everything I mean I get hiccups like a haiku leaving you to fill in the blanks.
I think before I write. Even, if not before I speak.
I am from a voice that says ‘don’t go off the porch…’ but really means, don’t risk my dreams
I am sustained by hope in things unseen.
(From your lips to GOD’s ears.)
