Her red hair was suddenly blue, blue like a blueberry muffin on top of her scalp. I wanted to cup her and gulp it, gulp those mountain blueberry swirls, gulp her like the muffin she is. I wanted to eat her out completely. The coffee was hot, hot like me. I took a sip.

I waited for something but the silence was warm; it was a fine and kind kind. It was fine. Silence can be kind and fine with her in the air–she makes the silent air kind and fine I find. Yes. Kind and fine are the words for her.

“I like my coffee black,” I said, “Black and bitter like my heart. I do like it dark though, dark like my thoughts, dark like you,” I smiled.

She smiled, such a wide delectable, lickable smile, “Tu es stupide! Mais, oui, je aussi aime du café noir. La vie, c’est comme la merde, n’est-ce pas?” She understands my sarcasm and has nothing but quips and smiles about it, no scoffing from her. She knows I’m just bullshitting because I’m nervous yet calm. No, I’m anxious. Anxious for her, for longings past and longings to come.

“Oui, un mangez et fait chier et baiser et mourir. Pur merde!” I sipped my black, cold coffee. How did it get cold so soon? I’m still hot!

And I gazed waiting for her to purr some more. I wondered why does everything I love run behind the fridge only to come back out from there to nibble–bite after little bite–tearing at me slowly until I become gangrenous? Is that why I feel like a zombie?

Green, I am. Black, I love.

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Note: Native French speakers, apologies for my terrible three-and-a-half semesters college-battered French.

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I stand barefoot on the stone.
Blue and brown ocean in front of me,
brown like my eyes, like my skin,
brown and blue like my latin blood
before it surfaces, before it floods
from its tunnel–a changeling, I stand.

My feet are soft like a child’s;
they are not calloused like my
young heart. I’ve lived so many
lives with it, this young heart.

These feet with their skeleton
butterfly shoes of a skater set
beside, ha, a skater that cannot run
but has gotten so far. These feet,
these shoes know the woes of an old man.

My father stands beside me by the
sand dunes, his curls like clouds.
He whispers something my old ears
cannot catch–words, slippery fish thrown out.
I wonder what it was but I need
not ask. He knows I know.

Old man knew what living without meant.
His closed hazel eyes, his little asthma
chest wrapped in a potato sack, sleeping
next to his mother. And I wonder if
the assumptions we make bear the fruit of

our fathers. Assumptions made are the
leather straps that wrap and tug us blind;
that leathery skin, our tongues
lash out from history’s hungry hunts.
I wonder if I stand here long enough,

will I make a lasting print,
a dent on this solid rock?
These were the fragments, the embers
remembered from March to September.
I look at my father and wonder,

marvel at my fractured heritage.

© Paz

A swelling silence bubbles in
this space above my head.
Slipping severed senses
call me in into
the rabbit hole.

I rise from it
from

Reality. Time. Space
and illusion
coalesce.

Transforms and tells me
what to do,
how to love,
how to not conform
to material view.

Slipping severed senses.
Electromagnetic
waves around us resound–
audio and indigo
and micro
waves hugging us,
encompass us–
violets greens yellows blues
oranges and reds.
The colors of my thoughts
meet the color
of my rage
as they do not separate
the white light
but combine my
courage. It is all
I have.
All I’ve ever had.

The light shimmering through
this sunroof simply allows me
to see this room, this space
completely–
not only for
what passes
passions
eyes.

Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned.” ~ Siddhartha Guatama Buddha

© Paz

**********************************************************************

“Today’s challenge is to write a poem of space.”

Whew this one came out of me quickly like a fart. Now to catch up, if I can.

Oh and if you’ve been reading, you know I tragically lost Lorna the other day and haven’t had the chance to birth her or any other poem, but I did clean up and edit Lorna 1 & 2 in the meantime and plan to bring back 3 & 4 by any means possible.

Spring Brews

I.
Drenched with what was,
what will eventually dry
and become white-washed
like ghosts behind
these brown eyes.

Morning dark
like night
or evening as I
adjust to dim light.

Wake up in a fog.
Wake up soft
and soggy
like these brown sheets.

The jitters will
only come later
with panic, with shrill
and erratic static.

II.
Sleeping too much
only tires the body,
the inner dwelling,
my soddy self. My sire

stoops over me now.
Gentle creases beside each
eye, like little creeks
meeting in a lake.
“Let’s go,” he says. I shiver.

We ride on. A storm
is brewing.
He interrupts,
“It’ll rain. We need cooling”

Clouds above grey, loaded.
The road, cars, widshield
all the same, aligned, faded.
Spring, I wonder, who’s to say

from behind this glass,
below her headless mass
we’re merely tinkering nothings,
traveling through endless outpourings,

raindrops clinking on tin cups
ready for her wind, her purring.
And the clouds’ grumbling, what do
they argue about in all this stirring?

III.
A witch behind the couldren
up there high. Stirring still
behind her
kettle-sky, her boiler

down here, drops of agitation,
acid rain
ready to fall
down, down the drains

like this faint
lass’s young heart.
See, she and I
that Witch-Sky
are much the same.

Her fury crackles
thunder turning off
the lights
much like I have lived
shutting off my…

IV.
The more I wait
under sedating
spring shadows,
the tartrate still coursing

my veins, the more
I wonder when she’ll
be done brewing rain
come down from her den,

done with unrestrained storms,
done filling my heart like worms
in a carcasses’s
eye sockets, when she’ll climb

down to cleanse,
to un-braid her sky
and let in some light
to untangle my thoughts.

© Paz

********************************************************************************************************

I didn’t know there were prompts to this thing. ha! Well, I kinda did. But I guess I was too steadfast and didn’t read clearly or bother to.

So today I actually followed the prompt. Meh. It was a slow, lowly day unlike the last two, super-hyped up weeks. Slept too much. Bleh.