I am not blank specks of flame and silk sweat spaceless rooms filled with found objects the wind here is a meri-go-round of disaster and dust it is always dawn dim lit and day broke busted but beautiful a stranger’s paradise unforeign and unexisted people retire beneath eyelids and everyday is an endless lifting trees grow in corners with little love and lots of lust rivers…
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I remember a time when going home was something hard to do; there were land mines everywhere. It was a place I carried shields in. Anger, hurt, sadnesss—it’s never those preliminary stages for long. In fact, one learns to dance in battlefields. Nothing is ever as beautiful as approach. Perspective can make a whole landscape of difference. What does it really mean to be renewed…
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcGEAuw0MYg Every Child is Born a Poet: The Life and Work of Piri Thomas (Source: http://www.youtube.com/)
He’ll be cross if he sees I have been crying. They don’t like you to...@dreamhampton :
He’ll be cross if he sees I have been crying. They don’t like you to cry. He doesn’t cry. I wish to God I could make him cry. I wish I could make him cry and tread the floor and feel his heart heavy and big and festering in him. I wish I could hurt him like hell.
He doesn’t wish that about me. I don’t think he even knows how he makes me feel. I wish he could know, without my telling him. They don’t like you to tell them they’ve made you cry. They don’t like you to tell them you’re unhappy because of them. If you do, they think you’re possessive and exacting. And then they hate you. They hate you whenever you say anything you really think. You always have to keep playing little games. Oh, I thought we didn’t have to; I thought this was so big I could say whatever I meant. I guess you can’t, ever. I guess there isn’t ever anything big enough for that.
@dreamhampton :
He’ll be cross if he sees I have been crying. They don’t like you to cry. He doesn’t cry. I wish to God I could make him cry. I wish I could make him cry and tread the floor and feel his heart heavy and big and festering in him. I wish I could hurt him like hell.
He doesn’t wish that about me. I don’t think he even knows how he makes me feel. I wish he could know, without my telling him. They don’t like you to tell them they’ve made you cry. They don’t like you to tell them you’re unhappy because of them. If you do, they think you’re possessive and exacting. And then they hate you. They hate you whenever you say anything you really think. You always have to keep playing little games. Oh, I thought we didn’t have to; I thought this was so big I could say whatever I meant. I guess you can’t, ever. I guess there isn’t ever anything big enough for that.
”For me, forgiveness and compassion are always linked: how do we hold people accountable for wrongdoing and yet at the same time remain in touch with their humanity enough to believe in their capacity to be transformed?”— bell hooks
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