you are orange like that sunrise like the vitamins I forget to take

And when eyes first begin to arrive into a Thursday, there is recognition of love in the sky. Who made the sun loose enough to drip color around the clouds like that? That orange makes me forget who I am makes me forget I am headache’d and weary makes me forget to remember.

A beautiful Human/ Dancer/ Writer tells me to prepare for love. We are all in need of it about this time, she says. I forget to tell her to look up because that is where I find the best warmth and when I am in worry, up there is where I watch movies in the cumulo-nimbus.

But. Even amidst this sunrise, I am fearing. When I am trapped below ground in an attempt to go to work or go to go to, I panic about what haunts the ones traveling with me. What is their weapon? Is it just their newspaper? Is it their sleep? My breaths will not protect me from anything harsher than that.

In a diner on an evening when I treat myself to a supper of vegetable soup and broccoli rabe, I look around. How angry are these eaters and can they live inside their rage without action? Should I rush my swallows?

How safe are we really from each other from ourselves from the ones who forget to look up at that orange at that beauty-full sun.

I used to take several vitamins, pushed on me by a love very similar to that sky: vast, illuminating, hard to reach. Then the day would begin and I would forget. So I popped bites full of ingredients instead of capsules. I digested plates full of food instead of pills full on the alphabet. If I kept swallowing those letters, would I be like that sky? Would I be orange? Would I be strength?

I have come to realize that almost everyday, I wear a vest. Black. Old. Used. Some smaller than others. Some torn. One newly mended. I have come to realize these vests are my armor. Perhaps they can protect me from what I can not prevent. From the tempers of earth’s inhabitants.

We cannot all live in the sky. The sun has boundary issues and likes to feel like the only one. But we can shine down here too. And we can replace bullets with poems, slam them into eardrums without blood shed, and instead, awaken minds. And let’s not wait for tantrums to explode into buildings full of people full of life full of hope. There is too much death down here. So look up. Be mindful of that beating heart in the sky. Go blind for awhile. Blink the shadows of its heat against your face. Slow down. There is enough beauty up there. Now lets start making some down here. We are all in need of it about this time.

(lit) bulbs.

Spring is approaching.

The soil we step on beneath the cement or bricks or what secretly whispers beneath buildings is preparing for its arrival.

As frost fumbles against mouths and breath is replaced by Winter’s smoke, gardeners press their weight into the earth. They bend. They dig. They bend. They dig. They rip open the dirt like impressively wrapped presents. The gift inside are the earthworms, the curiously creeping spiders, the bugs that haven’t been classified yet and the aroma of roots.

A poet walks around Brooklyn where roots are spray-painted on buildings and dirt stalks sneakers and dragging hems. Gardens are on rooftops or windowsills. But as the sun emerges into the sky like breakfast–a scrambled omelet in the sky–humans may be found on their knees, planting light bulbs. Which will become tulips or apple blossoms or lilies or blue bells. Scarves choke necks and wool itches the exposed skin on bodies as this soil prepares for a giant surprise party for the springtime.

sky rejuvenation

A replacement to alarm clock: annoying buzz of pre-programmed song on flattened radio called ipod. Large butter knife spreads raspberry jam into sky and preserves drip into the shadows of morning.

Hello, sunrise.

There are those days, which turn into weeks, then months, or more accurately described as years that are meant as lessons. Without the school desk or pencil case. There is no homework, but the lessons extend into the evening and through midnight dreaming.

This can also be defined as finding oneself.

Or: the act of living/ gathering selves into a cohesive whole.

Sky brightens, alerting birds to grind beaks together and howl their songs toward windows and tree tops. Grass glows from the spotlight above. Airplanes are visible again. And squirrels.

It is necessary to notice how it feels to breathe in a Monday. How different a Tuesday feels from Saturday or Thursday. Days are like lovers, all so different and yet, so often blurring into the other.