Tanka: touching the sky
Tanka: touching the sky foam stays behind, disappears we drift thirst to watch you fashion our garments
Posts
Red
Red Why do I paint my lips red when my secrets are hidden in blue? Elegance is a commodity situated in the fine print of my silky innocence. There is strength in water. Water is the freedom I never have. Art beckons an eye full of the kind of lust I can only share from a distance, walking through the scourged alleys of the city slums. I dwell in secret among shadows lost to the echoes of a bolero. Dance is my chore and magic. Once in a while, I raise my offer to show a stream of temper. It is then men gaze on my every movement; I am a slave of lust schooled for a single branch that will never belong to me. The art of conversation bows as a swan, never rushing into a premeditate pose, equally matching the wits of young and forgotten trees.
Salvation
Salvation I stopped pushing salvation on inner city streets after my husband’s funeral. Maples lining the road home reminded me of the kimono, and our baby; anniversary gifts from Tent. Rubin changed clothes as soon as we got home from Sunday school: toreror, mariachi, prime ballerina. It was difficult to keep a straight face in the middle of an argument with a little cross-dresser playing in front of you. In the beginning of autumn, that’s when he started collecting the feathers. My baby, fourteen, lifeless. He found the first one outside a mud wrestling bar and grill. It had the Lords Prayer written on the feather. Soon enough, they were coming from all around the world. He loved his collection. I gave each one of those bullies a feather. I want to forgive but… Tent was very close to his son, closer than the rope wrapped around his neck. The impact of losing his son was devastating. After the funeral I couldn’t wait; I needed to look in the mirror, put on the kimon