Saturday, November 20, 2010

Words ( Kripalu)

  • Until time years no longer
  • Imagination of wonder
  • Emerge in to this
  • Exotic flavor for life
  • This is there very moment

Fluid ( Kripalu)

I free what waits within
To feel this
Wildness of self expression

The Movable awareness of emotions
A new deliciousness warms my feelings
To open up to the affection of love
I must dive down into breath

The poem strollinng thorugh luggage NY

I make love
Fade blue harbor
Over looking from the south winds
Warm love into my heart
Red glaze- through wonder
Fear some gods
The make up of statures

This was on the airport conveyor belt,
while my luggage strolled
New York, 2004

Friday, November 12, 2010

The Samplers

When I think back to the two people who stand out the most were Paul and Kit. Paul on Sunday morning would walk to the end of the walkway that lead up to the door of his apartment complex. He would pop open his lawn chair and plop down like a dumpling falling into soup. Stretching and crossing his legs in front of him, his heavy sliver bangs fell across his forehead he'd read the Sunday news. During the day, Paul did computer then spent his free time coffeehouse hopping and reading the newspaper. He could always be found in a nearby coffee shop in downtown Ann Arbor. Paul was soft spoken; his speech meticulous. Listening to him speak, time seemed to slow down with every word. His speech pulled the listener in. When I met him, he disclosed to me that he likes to travel, especially in Italy. While traveling, he found an old wheelchair, disassembled the wheels and attached them to his suitcase.

On Wednesday Paul would meet his friend Kit at the Amsterdam Espresso, where coffee refills are free. Kit was tall with brown curly hair, wild like lightening. He wore cargo pants and an army green flannel He never spoke in my presence. Kit used to be an artist, a sculptor,but he got struck by lightning and lost his ability to create with his hands. He liked to host gallery open houses and invite wineries to hold samplings, bringing more people in. This way he squeezed the most out of the event while boosting sales.

On Saturday Paul and Kit's favorite outing besides getting coffee is getting free food. Their favorite place to hang is Whole Foods. They enjoy going there for the free food samples the store offers. When Kit goes to Whole Foods he carries a crystal cylinder mug and sips tea. He moseys around the store and talks to the staff while sampling food. Paul by his side. But sampling free food occasionally is not enough for Paul and Kit. Their urges for free food become an adrenaline rush, an addiction, that they are unable to curb. It has become an everyday ritual. They hide themselves, behind support beams, pressed up as flat as can be, paper plates hidden in Kit's cargo pants. Just a few strides away from each other, clutching their plates, slowly creeping out with one foot. They make sure that nobody sees them. Each take turns dashing over to fill up their plates with free food. After each outing they returned to their hideout. Now I only see Paul around town alone. He visits all the coffee houses, but I don't know what happen to Kit.

My other half

Olive Garden, Easter Sunday afternoon. My 82 year old grandma is taking the family out to lunch. The family is in the lobby waiting to be seated. My brother is tall and thin like a bean pole, the name everybody calls him. His scraggly dirty blond hair hangs loosely around his shoulders. He is in his usual all black garb, which is a long sleeve hoodie that has been worn past it due date. The edging around the cuffing has torn and frayed and there are holes everywhere. Neither he nor his clothes have been washed in months. Instead of getting new pants, he adds another patch to the collage. This time the tear is in the center of his pants, the crotch.

With his legs spread wide open, sitting on the bench in the lobby; with a red piece of leather in one hand and sewing needle threaded with dental floss in the other, my bother begins to sew. Being completely mortified by my brother, I burst out “What are you doing? “ Com’ on Jeannine, everybody has a crotch. Don’t you have a crotch.? He says. He is undisturbed by what he is doing, not caring what anyone else thinks. It's Easter Sunday and I can not believe he is my twin.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Unspoken interactions and Knowings

A mother knows her son is struggling, possibly with a disability. He needs help, but she is too ashamed to ask.

In a store front, a women gets push down to the ground and beaten, by a man. Know one does a thing and this event goes unnoticed. Your heart races. Standing there frozen, shocked and afraid, you want to take action, but You're are in a country
where you don't know your rights, your a women, and in this country, you might not have rights.

Every time I see you. Your wallet flips open to a picture of your son. You don't know, that I know who he is. I want to ask, is he still in jail?