Monthly Archives: June 2011

Elephas.Cocoa.&Lincoln for H20

He’d stated, “3rd note to self, water for chocolate, nobody won the chocolate wars as all participants merely got cavities, therefore making love on a waterbed is approved by 9 out of 10 dentists. ”  And I laughed with a smile big and wide like thighs spread and remembered intimacies.  He was demanding and I never gave an inch.  It’s what we like best- challenges.  He excelled at Chess and I’d never learned to play but disintegrated homes and hardships taught kinky haired children stratagems to keep the village together and the larders full on a dime.  We broke bread from my oven and pretended we didn’t need each other.  I didn’t know his full story, but I could tell he’d also mastered pushing people away so they won’t leave when they’re gone.  Our eyes locked like daggers, piercing in intensity.  We made love like war and took no prisoners.  I used to think every venture had a destination.  I liked going on trips, getting to know the local flavor, and returning home.  He was packing my bag with a sundress and a machete.  Quests are unexpected adventures, and often the costs are not as easily alleviated as a cavity.  Al Green crooned, “How Can you Mend a Broken Heart” two years after the Gibb boys had nursed broken beats to the B-Side of a “Country Woman.”  Water! Water! Water! they all requested between takes.  The vocal chords, turns out, are just as vulnerable as the heart and when the two coincide someone or something has to go out. Everybody’s craving passion, to bite the bullet and ride the bull. Something forbidden or hidden because it takes two to tango. Even gringos get it and wish to let go of their anglo saxon disenchantment and for a love one can only express in a the kneading of dough… in needing both a parent’s love and the ability to love someone who doesn’t have to love you but can’t stop.  Mama taught me early to want what I couldn’t have or perhaps there was a more sinister plot afoot, that ever after wasn’t for us.  Lately, it’s looked like mine.

Part of walking down this path isn’t just about scenery, it’s also about balance.  Most people want to please everybody so they OCD down the middle of the road, but one day there comes a fork—> you have to choose. Only the magician’s assistant could be cut in two.  Then we were running from barking dogs and burning crosses because with the lights off, I didn’t know it was a fox and that x is an intersection; they’ve wanted me to hate myself for years and consistently try to convince me being a nigger lover is bad.  So I change the channel, but I won’t go into surfing yet.  It’s 1956 Alabama and Gordon Parks snaps a photo of a black gal dressed for church, sipping from ‘the colored only’ fountain because some trips one must praise Jesus and Jim Crow.  I’m thinking one of her descendents grew up in a brownstone on the south side of Chicago– not to be confused with the poison that Fantastic Mr. pushes in the streets of Porter County.  A lot of their grandparent migrated from Peaches, Sippy cups, and Volunteering states of mind with dreams of  prosperity on Lakeview.  In my vision, she’s rocking big gold hoops like her ancestors and Cross Colors like her peers.  She pops bubble gum and sings along to J.J. Fad’s S.U.P.E.R.sonic.  The fellas, post disco dug it when Gil said, “The Revolution will not be Televised.”  They told her Common liked rhymes and got his moniker from Common Sense.  See it doesn’t take a genius to figure out at the end of the day, in this fragile skin to understand this to be true: wherever you reside, whomever you adore, whatever lingo you verb, or however you worship— you get thirsty and you need to drink.  Even if you don’t believe in chocolate Jesus, there’s a need to be reborn and baptized in the water to wash the dirt and grit off.  This world is filthy and anything that stands out to long will tarnish and rush.  He felt he held the same passion for music that de la Garza had for food and Shakespearean love.  The church lady’s great grand daughter likes Common.  I want to tell this fictitious girl I do too.

I mention you and tell her I’m in love with a circus freak who takes care of caged, wounded animals who put on a show.  Though his training isn’t formal, he learned just enough to expound.  You think I deserve better than self destruction, and we argue about what there is to restore.  I may even mention how you like a girl who looks at the tops of trees because a friend once called them her personal ocean.  The birds become fish, swimming in and out of their waves.  That I’m, I mean she’s drawn to them and their symbolic freedom.   You like that about her and there are instances when you watch her fascinated that she forgets that they are prey and the two of you are one of their wolves.  I know you believe that because you’ve never really recognized I want to swim to glide not as a dove or dolphin, but a griffin because to heaven I was born.   And I guard divinity in this life because I’m mankind and history has revealed the continued search for the source is innate whether it be for elephants or chocolate, even souls time traveling in before and after.

Love and Lost.  This toothache won’t let me sleep, heard you got a poultice at the end of the tunnel for me.

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