bursts of orange

The colours press against my ears. A swooshing like the sea in a sea shell, A whooping like wind on an open plane. Making my mouth fill with sand, My head with tumble weed and cotton fuzz. A sea shell sea waving against a windy sea.   Windy plains blowing tumble weed and cotton fuzz against tinkling chimes on wooden beams. Chimes tinkling in the sun Powdering the air with silver specks.   Powder specks that bedazzle the sand. Tinkling specks, Caught in the whooping wind Swept into the swooshing sea.

A sand dollar. Delicate, see through, Fairy glass.   A token for the wanderer. A nik nak of places Of people well met. Gently placed into her purse Another dollar, another story. In a gladdening postcard tucked into a memory box rattling with buttons and bits of string   stuffed in a sock drawer. Another story All over captioned loose leaf enveloped in expensive embossed paper Crinkling with dried lilacs picked from between cracked rock.   Another story   Into static lines beeping interruptions across continents of humanity tangled in wireless cords of lost love. Another story Squatting at a camp fire of peers holding out sculptures of crawling flying running swimming totems. She holds her purse   Her sand dollars Her stories. Fragments of a looking glass from her souls reef.

Animal sheets toppling over with stubborn books and lonely socks fighting to hold the world together with pritt glue and cello tape. Dry eye one girl crusades in mango trees and dictionaries. Crisp white sheets in long wooded rooms that soak up cold water mornings greeting impossible sunrises. A green cage chattering with broken winged grey cockatoos Green stripped sheets Harbor a fervor like a sickness. Eager Fanta bubbles always rising always racing. Orange flares against loved skies, skies clouded with lame sheep and potato chips. Star patterned sheets Drenched in hopes and overnight mascara revolving doors littered with change rattling already nauseous nerves. Going around in vertigo dresses worn to a hopeful uncertain exit.

Droplets of myself. Coloured. Tainted. Falling all around me. I know not the fantasy from the reality In being boundless I am still half-caste My desires, world, truth. Blended… Droplets of myself. Coloured. Tainted. I think therefore I am? No, I feel therefore I may be… That’s what the ripples in the puddle forming at my feet glisten back at me Catching the light to convey their thoughts The ripples in my glow, mind, flow Blended… Droplets of myself. Coloured. Tainted. I stand in myself as I pour around me Seeking to discern what is me and what is ME What is mine and what is lent to me? My something new, borrowed, blue. Blended… Droplets of myself. Coloured. Tainted. I stare into my version of the sun Maybe it’s the glare But once in a drop I see a different colour and taint My snowflakes. In the midst of me,   there is ME Bursting forth to remind me, Of the ME before here I was whole before I was made whole I am b...

Traded for Aztec gold, I chose my currency. I chose beads and mirrors. Swarthy coverings, singing boxes, clinking stones. Paisley shifts, silk bindings, painting sticks. Iridescent fulfillings of my present. My comeback to unfair deductions made in haste, Measured against unveiled mounds and softness. I chose beads and mirrors. Twinkling fireflies, endless folds, warming scenes. Flashing neon, sleek purrings, dizzying heights. Crisp caricatures of wonderland. Judgement doesn’t live here. Left on a mound of dust at Uhuru (freedom) park, Modest skirts billowing I chose beads and mirrors. Black lacquer, soap stone, flowered valleys. Wisp lace, fertility chains, up done tresses The open embrace to a lap of luxury. Tiptoes swinging a sing song of lust, A song of swallowing whole, A feasting of life to music. I chose beads and mirrors.