Meditating on Kiwi-colored Cantaloupe in the Produce Aisle
my breath, warm from morning, fogs
the chrome before the water’s steam creates
a wall. closing my eyes I listen to the beats,
the drums of nature’s flow. I watch the droplets
trace and chase each other clearing lines and
patterns my fingers once traced. like the rain
down the window on a dark, dank day moving
along the highway, I map out the interstate
in the blackberry marble shower stall tiles.
I close my eyes and count the spots
of white, blue, strawberry and green
light while the professor carries on and on
on the soapbox of academia.
the kid next to me is yawning and I zoom
out, smiling at the dancing dots, fluttering.
the train whistles begin to scream
and I’m back to “passion plays” and
christians killing Jews.
I’d forgotten what sitting on floral pillows
below indoor lamps bolted to the floor felt like.
the room, immediately nicknamed “The Great
Gatsby Room” with clean, white light
likeness, feels comfortable again as
the window fogs with my eager breath. the
snow is melting and I feel weak while waiting
for the next downpour of coconut
and nutmeg white flakes.
standing in front of the glass sheltered painting,
you confess you hate the lines and color – you
don’t get it. I can see your washed out reflection
in the nearly-clear blueberry wine shaved glass,
just so, behind me looking on, frustrated. the smile
on my face isn’t clear, the glare of light and color on the
canvas hide my unreserved elation at your
misfortune and misunderstanding of enormity.
but more revealing is that I stand and look on at
your reflection, forgetting the medium, and feeling
you out through my eyes.
I’ve noticed my hands take form
like the sky – vast, spotted with milky
ways that color the veins and cracks,
crevices and bendables. The more I look,
the more that appears. these almond-bent
eyes catch every last spec and then another
And another: rebirth and multiplication
tables that go on and on and on and …
I get lost in my own genetic map.
the last of winter’s fruits are being
blown from nature’s arms and body as
I walk across the mall. dead trees are
becoming movers and shakers while
my nose becomes atwitch with the wind
and the dust that crawls through it. I close my
eyes and feel the fountains rush move
between my toes. I’m soaked in Spring’s
I carry myself to the front lobby –
two chairs, plastic, avacado green
plant – computers buzzing.
Humming a tune I don’t recognize,
the sound of work, hours of intense
network division and multiplication.
the goal was a tissue, a Kleenex to alleviate
the stuffed brain, nose shrapnel, perhaps a
moment to breathe and feel my lungs.
instead I stand and listen to the buzzing,
the calm, clear, static sound of a
computer crying – indefinitely stuck to
a wall while I blow and meditate.
note: guess who stanza 4 is about!
i think i might be forgetting what it feels like to live. so i'll brush off my eyes and sweep aside my hair and hope that it comes back to me. until then, i'll study my ass off for Jewish History and leave you with this poem (which might i add the teacher decided today wasn't due until the thursday after spring break >:-( which pissed me off becuase, grr...sigh). hope you enjoy, and hope everyone's enjoying their weeks.