Is the glass half-full, or half-empty?
Be more or less to each other.
on the horizon.
No longer is she fearful
Bridget, driving to pharmacy
with her guitar slung on the
back seat of her rental car.
No more a victim of her relationships
gone sour. All the hours of the 24.
The sky is her mirror. A surge of
images linked to Freedom, Equality,
Liberty seek her out in this vulnerable
She claims what is due to her.
No longer will she swim against
the tide. A hermit beneath her
She is an America, and a redhead. Godammit!
Her hair is red on her head,
and red on her bush. The trees
Three days from now on Thursday
at 19.30 at Bar Brigitte, in Paris,
France. She will sing her songs of
In front of an audience of critics and
strangers she will sing her self-penned
songs. She will not be afraid of speaking
No sooner said
and a mockingbird appears
to make a mechanical noise.
Not three seconds pass
before her shadow self
mocks her metamorphosis.
Refusing to be altered, she
gazes strongly at her shadow
self and whispers, “Cool it,
“Welcome to the world, child,
this song is for you.”
Born again. Another day. Regenerated, cells reprised.
Always. Change. Still. Constant.
Sleep is our exile: from birth to exile.
In our dreams we perform twice-hourly spacewalks to retrieve (several) film cassettes.
The purpose of this lonely circling rendezvous is to move and shake in mystical states, in anticipation of the cliffhanger scene when we forget our safe world in the lonely circle and fail to return from our dreams.
How quickly the lighted taper of our existence burns to vapor, as we fade to black on Earth’s surface.
Return home to our seedpods, in a distant sky with different stars. Far from the astronomer’s gaze.
With our Earth eyes disabled, we use transcendental meditation to put the finishing touches to our minds.
At the time of writing, our film is Untitled.
She adds the tragic loss of her daughter “Michele” to the mystery of how humankind came to be here on Earth.
If God’s people cannot agree on the Beginning of Time, her wish is that her daughter will never trace her and save herself the disappointment of discovering the tale of her beginning —
Upon a Time.”
Her homeland is a primitive island in the midst of the Caribbean Sea.
“Learning to reading
was reserved for the rulers of the island.
As Michele grows up, she will want to be read to at night. What
will her mother tell her? Should she say that her eyesight is poor.
* * *
My illiterate, mother.
I span her like a shadow self,
calling out her name. “Frances”.
Step into my tracks, Frances. Frances.
Tell me your life story. In my dreams
you are a lifesaver.
You are a palm reader. You read palms.
You read me every night.
There beside me…. whispering incantations,
telling me what comes next…
Replacing fairytales? Replacing
I remember who I am today.