Tag Archives: dreams

“That’s Not Who I Am.” (8-11 stanzas)

“I get it!”

He yelled from inside the car.

“Sometimes it is hard to take the leap.”

As if through the dreary haze of a dream, I remember something

in fragments

The desert and the canyon.

The hopelessness and the feelings of being lost.

The bitter taste…

“You just gotta let go!”

He flicked his cigarette at me.

“Who are you?” I yell back, my head pounding.

“I am a nobody.

A no one.

Someone undefined as of yet.

The beginning of something new

and that endless possibility of what is to come!”

I shook my head violently.

The signs and the anger drumming in my head were overwhelming.

It all needed to end.

Those horrible images of a pointless life

attached

to

a

name

“That’s who I am.”

                                                                        I

didn’t

even

like

“Who are you?”

My eyes widened, flitting from the dark ledge of the unknown

back to the shadowy silhouette of the man with no name.

Sweet existential understanding broke through the clutter of past things.

That’s not who I was anymore.

“I am you.”

_

_

I stumbled forward

learning to walk again, gesturing for him to move to the passenger side.

Now was my turn to drive.

He smiled that scary smile.

Scary with all the things that now could be.

I closed the door and he shut his

as he talked of how the possibilities were endless now

life was for me to bend again

through the insight I have gained

in enlightenment.

The past was merely a springboard

from which to launch

with lessons learned

and tales to tell.

Nothing to define the man to come.

That’s not who I am any longer.

I punched the accelerator.

The piece of shit lurched forward into the darkness.

For a moment we flew

Until we

began

to fall.

Toward a bright

white

Light

we

fell.

I close my eyes.

Thinking of the metaphor of the ledge.

“That’s not who I am…

…any longer…”

_

_

The sun was just breaking when I waked.

Gasping for breath, sitting straight in the uncomfortable car seat.

The little light just beginning was orange, purple and blood red.

It was enough to show me the wide expanse of desert

bathing in the blooming colors, soaking up the first bit of understanding.

I leaned back in the seat letting the heat warm my cold body

resurrecting in a way, allowing me to feel new.

Blinking I reached for my cigarettes,

craving the menthol flavor

to mask the bitter metallic flavor left in my mouth.

After a few drags

I twisted it into the wood paneling

chucked the rest

allowed a deep breath

and a grateful smile

started up the car

and began to drive.

I had many miles to go.

The adventure had just begun anew.

_

_

There once was a man, who hated his name,

the history and the definition that came with it.

But that man died-

-disappeared.

Leaving behind only a license and a social security number to show he was there.

With those was a note,

written in hastily excited letters:

“That’s not who I am.”

FIN.

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“That’s Not Who I Am.” (1-4 stanzas)

There once was a man who hated his name.

Reminded him of his folks back home

in Lowell, Massachusetts.

He told me this that night.

“That’s not who I am.”

Then he lit up his cigarette

took a few drags

but before he could be asked to put it out

he angrily twisted it into the wood

threw down his money

(but no tip)

muttering,

“That’s not who I am.”

 _

_

This intrigued me so I followed him out.

I knew he would have an interesting point of view.

He didn’t seem to mind

though he didn’t seem to care, either

and continued to talk as if no one was there.

“I’m not a factory worker.

I’m not the Kerouac.

And I’m not a Southeast Asian.

So I hit the road, in search of a better name

or a meaning for my name. “

 “So you are a traveler?”

He stopped but didn’t turn around.

“That’s what I do.

That’s not who I am.”

 _

_

The repressed anger in his voice crackled

and I would never assume what he was a again.

He said names are just tags,

tagging you to long dead pasts.

Jobs are moneymaking limitations,

limiting you to a mediocre level.

Race is an automatic stereotype,

Stereotyping you into some sort of demeaning joke.

He could go on but he would always stop,

stop before his words became to convoluted and say,

“Unless you like being defined by those sorts of things

but I don’t drink that Kool-Aid

because

that’s not who I am.”

_

_

He left the passenger door open to his piece of shit car

and I climbed in hesitantly.

This was a man that I really knew nothing about

except for the small fact that he was from Lowell, Mass.

But there was this real adventure he promised

by way of casting away everything you had

searching for who you really are.

“You can take the fast lane to death,” he said turning onto the high way

handing me a razor and some powder.

“Or you can take the slow road.”

He paused to watch me fumble with cutting.

“But

that’s not who I am.”

His foot slammed down upon the accelerator

throwing me back

and the coke twisting and spiraling out the windows into the jet black night.

I coughed.

He laughed,

“That’s not who I am.”

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Haiku: 21: Telling Dreams

My sister tells me,

“Last night I dreamt of heaven.”

While I dreamt of hell.

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This is She

Freedom tastes like cigarette smoke and reeks of booze.

Freedom is a fine woman who has fallen prey to society’s constant change.

Freedom is not the same as how it use to be.

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Filed under cireryohei

The Weather of the Brain

There was a light in the distance; an off-shade of ruby.

Before I could stop it, the blast shocked me.

And it was as if the child’s spirit in me was crying and screaming in the same moment.

However, I was filled with neither sorrow nor anger.

I was still standing there with a glow on my face.

Despite what took place at a crossroads that night.

You never thought to take a glimpse at that crystal ball.

But it flourished before Glenda could ever catch the clue.

You escaped Oz before it turned on you; before they had a chance to send you home.

No, I say, I’m staying right here.

I like the flying monkeys and the golden road that led me to fear and courage

All mixed into the same storm.

No fancy shoes for her.

No, I say, I’m staying right here.

Stuck in this sun-filled, blue-skied image.

The light, an off-shade of ruby, was the unknown beacon;

The unknown beacon to the most pleasant of daydreams.

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Space Cadet: Glorious Youth Preserved As An Afterthought

O’holy and high,

Shining without limits.

Do you still gaze at the

Mystery within the moon?

 

Joyous and strong,

And caught up in endings,

That were taught through movies,

To loud for conversation.

Do you stare at the planes still,

And wonder of the people inside,

And the places they are going?

 

Angered and aside,

Misunderstood,

And oh how angry

And loud.

“Forgetting is different,”

This was decisive.

Do you still wait in your driveway,

Waiting for a car to come and pick you up?

 

Hazy and blurred,

Remembered in a dream,

And happy.

Laying in the grass,

In fields, in dirt.

Do you still wake up

And smile?

 

I still smile at strangers,

I stare at the moon,

Dance in the sun,

Feel the grass with bare feet.

 

Do you still dream of the

Things we dreamed of?

 

I don’t know.

I don’t.

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Ole Long Neck

Image

length from shoulders to

chin, much longer than normal,

head perched above all,

very disproportional,

oh giraffe you’re an oddball

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Filed under aptenodyte