 It’s later than you think or maybe sooner they’re all that are left now the letters waiting ready to be formed into words must try to sort themselves into words, lost words that will never be spoken.
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 As of yet, I have not committed to a single plot; couldn’t bear to face the people on the pages, for all my lack of class and connections, whitened education. Give me poetry any day, I can flirt with a thought forever- or never, break lingual barrier- fa freddo! Sejuk keh? It’s cold, out here in the brief bubbles of poetry. But I cannot commit to the depth and breadth of prose - my well laid cases eventually move and dance, frantically spreading irrelevant emphasis on some theme or other.
Fragmented shards of writing are a hundred times more alluring. Snippets to another realm. Mise-en-scene. Haiku. A singular stanza that stands alone. Sweet poetry does not demand love or care- does not require formal training or networking. What was it Ms. Lorde said? “Of all the art forms, poetry is the most economical.” They give solace and voice to angst and noise  When the extraordinary Swedish documentary “Nelly & Nadine,” directed by Magnus Gertten, was released in 2022, it was featured in over 100 festivals and received more than 20 international awards, mainly in Europe. Thankfully in the US, it is now widely available on various streaming services. For me, it was one of those films that stays with you, makes you think, makes you remember, makes you well up with tears.
 I’m thirteen. I'm in my relative’s garage, where we would all hangout. The garage has always been dull. Its gray walls stacked with boxes of dusty car parts, gig equipment and miscellaneous gadgets. It has an old, ripped, black sofa with stains discarded from their living room, and a stackable shoe-rack that exists in most garages, including mine. The garage always smells like hookah, that culturally-specific water pipe that is very popular in the Middle East and many parts of Asia. I could always sniff the burnt smell of whatever flavor was used the night before.
 When you dance do you give your dance to the Night? Daughter of Dance? Daughter of the Sun? When you sing do you give your song to the Air? Flute? Drum? Gifts of the Graces. And when you write do you give it to Fire or Dream. What of the mother of Rivers. What of Lies the first story teller. And when you laugh? To Summer sister of Spring.  On the shore, where does a story start Not one of love, but one of necessity And lost hope. On the shore, where Does the lead stand, a dance led by Strangers. Darkness on a white dress The guilt of slaughter. When the master Came home he wanted his talents. Dead Each and buried. Where does a story Begin. America is an old story. On the shore Or on a bridge. Oh america of Multitudes Where do you start. At pilgrim. At slave. At summer On the shore. The ramparts. Bloody in a field. America, how unlikely, you pretty bloom On a wet black bough. Bloody in a field.  |
