(Café kino window seat Oct 2024)
It came up whenever the thought surfaced. Usually, something about living there would catch her attention. She could be walking, sitting or just watching people go about their day. Then tightness in her chest staggering her breath triggering a rattle in her head as the shock of where she was grounded her. First numbness, then panic, then all at once everything.
Reddibo. Red earth makes sense, after all the root chakra is red. Bauxite. Blood.
Iced matcha latte. Leaves sprouting in early spring as yet uncoiled already ending and begin. The river when enough water gathers, and the sky is marshmallows and cotton balls. The sweet spot between a heatwave and the beginning of a storm. Envy, wanting what’s not yours. Jealousy, wanting more than you can afford. Knitted matrix quilting hill climb, arrow-tipped shin splints and redness. Choking the life out of my voice, vaulting my throat with a sarcophagus stone. Aerodynamic fabrics woven with expert machinery and a brilliance that splinters rainbows into droplets of sapphire and gold. Soft segmented round edges faces reflecting faceless visage. Flags always flags, something symbolic like the Earth. Which we blister and sore with our needing to be clothed and fed, demanding more and more and more and more. His smile, smouldering, his smacking lips. His teetering on the edge engaging the abyss with a cigarette lit but untouched by his lips. Leaves are green. Money is green. But money doesn’t grow on trees. It grows beneath. Under the dark side of rocks and boulders, in the obsidian corners of caves where no light has ever beamed. Protection in nylon, soft satins in alphanumeric codes, punching in and punching out, emptying and filling up. Sullen and swollen with rot and festering with magic. Drawn in by the sweetness of cascading sunshines tithing room for transformation then unfolding into some new dimension. Sights set on what is yet to come; that which has never been, crackling revolutions. Conscious action, conscious thought. Conscious thought, conscious action. Freedoms before Kingdoms.
Tuff but not lady-like. Tuff but not dainty and nice. Tuff. Used up. Kept around ‘cause choice is a privilege for some but for everyone else, it’s a sacrifice.
Skin bolus through lace, imprinting maps into taut flesh, inscribing contours. I start and stop. Where to begin, everything feels the same, undifferentiated stems. Discernment is a process despite plans best laid. All the colours I see are more than I could have ever dreamed but this dream I cannot unveil. A language I know but cannot speak. Me and my dreams. Me and what I want. Me and empowerment. Me and poetry. Me and trying too hard. Choke and cough and regurgitate the same shit, chopping up bits. Serial letters, parallelising methods. It’s the same shit, just Remixed.
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