Perfection
I never wish for perfection
Only that my mistakes seem small enough to fold into themselves
If I can hold them in my palm
Then I can trap them in a fist
But I see myself, I know who I am,
I hear the clock ticking in my eardrum.
Keeping track of seconds, of steps, of time
Do I wait
Hesitate, let my body seize up
The mistakes wear me as I stand still,
Pending
I swear, I never wish to be perfect
But how can I be satisfied when my flaws are all so clear?
He came in snakeskin
And sat under my tree
Told me what was outside of the garden
And all that I could be
Then he gave me an apple
And tried to force it down my throat,
With all the sweet, sweet lies he told
I ate the snake
And it tasted
Like understanding
To the days when summer seemed to never end
And sunbeams danced across the sky,
Aligned in perfect dimension
To the night breeze,
And morning heat
The soul dance of hearts,
Swooning to meet
And then disappear
Because love and sun
Burn fast in summer air
In the moment there is little we see
Our nearly closed eyes capture the stark white room,
We cry and scream.
There are strange noises, voices.
And the day is forgotten.
It’s one of the flaws of humanity:
We cannot remember everything.
But now that we are older,
We learn to bury our memories in a chest.
Because what the mind seems to forget
The heart remembers,
Vividly
Knitting imagines together
Mending heartstrings with heartstrings
The end of every moment we seal away as a memory,
Til we acquire an album of snapshots to tell our story.
I write for vagrants
Beggars of the word
Eager to listen
Be Heard
I write for them,
What they can’t for themself
A plea
A back-breaking chorus:
Feed us
The hungry,
Your wasted words
Feed us
Mumbles we’ll roar
Feed us
The mute,
A voice
Why The Trumpets Sound
When the bass and snare drums roll away
The trumpets will sound.
Something loose,
It will be unlike the hurried beats of war,
Instead, it will be infectious and sporadic,
It will paint the smiles of its people.
As they carry the sun in their pocket and the wind at their back,
The trumpets play in union.
It is creative, flamboyant in its confidence.
It is the music of rich souls dancing on a 2 and 4.
Afro kinky coils bobbing on the back of necks.
Sharp shoes and a rhythm and blues jams,
The trumpets sound like culture,
Sounds like years of discarding hate and learning to love,
It sounds beautiful.
A distinct sound that belongs to one instrument,
When the trumpets sounds,
It is the caged bird setting itself free.
A Melodies tune some will envy
Still, it sings but a different song,
It matches the upbeats of the trumpet,
For the trumpet sounds for black joy.
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