I’ve gone to see Friday,
because Mondaytuesdaywednesdaythursday
roam about at snail speed.
He’s cordially invited me,
and has a place for me to stay,
the weekend.
We’ve made plans you see,
Friday and me,
to do those fun things
the ‘weak’ days cast aside.
A blank-stare-vacancy-sign
and a body stuck between
Monday-schoolday-workday-Thursday
conceal the mind’s disappearance
to lazy grass nests and sleeping in
late.
Friday sits beside me,
calmly watching as the world
catches up.
It’s the thing that slips between the fingers
as sand from the from the tropical coasts.
There’s one last grain, one last letter,
but falling captive to gravity and to doubt.
Like groping hands in thick black night,
stumbling for a clue or trigger.
The honest truth, there isn’t a hope,
just wild guesses in the dark.
Giving up would mean the end,
defeat in this civil war.
Mind always wins at intensions war,
and the casualties are always forgotten.
That first letter and the sound that it makes.
His first name and how you met.
Their first words and breath,
all grains of sand slipping past.
I remember the night of ‘star dust’
Though now more like a vivid dream
After everyone was fast asleep,
But we just couldn’t say good night.
Huddled near for the sake of being closer,
Hands tangled tight like tree roots.
We now talk about things like hair roots
And how one day we’ll be dust.
Speaking words that could stand to be closer,
And huddling near is usually just a dream.
Visiting drives turn day to night,
When tired bones lye to sleep.
I hope you’re with me for the closer.
When the bright light shuts our eyes to sleep,
And we get to soar through air as dust.
I
I am my father’s
Colors.
Lanky build, brown hair, tired eyes.
I wave them proudly for all
And one day I want
To be a father just like you.
Don’t die.
There’s too much yet to say,
There’s too much to fix, build,
And share.
II
You were just a boy when your father passed.
You the eldest son of three
Making the sacrifices to make ends meet.
But I found your aspirations, hidden in a drawer,
Collegiate grades and letters buried thick in dust,
Dreams never accomplished.
Selflessness is what I see, I feel,
All for family…
I wave my father’s colors.
I dream my father’s dreams.
It’s a good long walk from there
To here, under thick-black sky
Where the path weaves to and fro.
The sparrows sleep and blossoms
Close, like mouths enjoying quiet.
Two parallel lines in a nest
Of muted green. Searching eyes skyward
For the falling pieces of gold
To make a wish upon.
One hand this way, one
Heart that way. Silence
In that vacuum held
Its unshakeable grip of words.
The car will turn for the sun peaking
From its tree covered
Hide, and I return to mine.
I attended the Q and A dialog between Patricia and Ben. They started off the commentary on why/how they began their careers began her career when she realized the her works not only affected her, but also those surrounding her; she was fortunate to have a social circle that also supported her efforts and job. Ben’s explanation was somewhat different, in that he looked for the aspects of horror; he believes that these are thing things that evoke the most feelings in people, terror, fear, horror. I was mostly interested in Patricia Smiths conversations on her book though.
Patricia Smith was an outsider to the Katrina disaster, which influenced her writing, and she was worried that she might not be portraying them the way they saw fit. Upon the completion of her works though, it was met with mixed emotion, for some it was a work that helped them to cope with the situation and to help keep this disaster in the minds of the public; others though, thought badly on, being distasteful and such.
Patricia uses her writings as a way to process her emotions and thoughts though; she tries to resolve thoughts on religion and tensions. Her family used to be a faithful family till her father died in a robbery which seemed to have set her mother on a different path. Patricia tries to work these thoughts and feelings out through her creations though.
As a funny tid-bit, she commented on the George Bush poem, “only single syllable words.” Patricia really tries to put herself in others shoes and feel as they feel.
