Train Rides and Purple Skies In Jersey

By: Stephanie L. Morehead

2

Bridge I remember what the blank page looked like. After the head-bang of cacophony, there is: A sparkling symphony of nothing. A quieting embrace of Love. Peace stills throbs. Translucence calms fears. Erase me. Saturate me. Gone. God.

3

Graffiti My words are graffiti, saying nothing with color. When I'm not sleeping, the sun shines in my eyes and I look at the Jersey freight fields and the skyline of New York approaching. And I relate the landscape to my own personal continent. It's getting too crowded in here. Gotta free up some space, minimize, bulldoze, repave, plant trees. Tend to my wild garden. I am restless and sinful and carefree...trying to remember what's good in me. And fuck you if you're judging me...you are no better than me. Will you remember me? I was someone who believed. I was pure, and naked, and I believed. Until I was deceived by a man who turned cold on me and I'll never know why and I don't want to know why. But yea, I'm still recovering. So now my words are like graffiti... Bold and bloody and just don't give a fuck... But at the core of rebellion is a broken heart, yearning to be healed, dying for the one thing that can heal.

4

Seed Karma prevails over the Screeching rails, Speeding time, and Churning minds. All we have is now And we miss it Again and again. Mind over matter Except I am not my mind Or my parents' daughter... Just one small seed Beyond tongue and hourglass.

5

Sakura I walked down the hill, Cherry blossoms shed their buds For lust of summer. The moments and rain Blew tiny kisses at me: So ephemeral. I am a cat on My fourth life Trying not to die this time. On the bus today, The expanse of the city Was exposed to me… Existential unfolding.

6

Salsa You spun me Into percussion Que endulza la sal The band was Loud like Diced peppers My hair dripped Wild Caribbean beads But all I noticed Was your smile.

7

Midwifery of NYC New York births moments. Seconds like and Unlike the ones before. Another skyscraper, Another hotdog stand, Another man in a suit, Another person wearing an iPod, And the minute hands Are reborn again and again. Then there’s the haphazard Invasion of boundaries and The interactions Of eight million people. I’ve learned to inhale on the way Through her concrete womb, Impregnated New York, Mother of a billion stories, Financial Mecca, Shopping haven, Home of the best pizza. The artists, and the actors, And the struggling poets, All flock to New York – as art is creation and New York is in a constant state of creation. And my toes haven’t touched the Atlantic in years as I pretend I’m not aging and suspend activities That remind me of the fact. I feel New Jersey in my cells, Native to the bone. I am just a midwife to Manhattan, An outsider visiting for work purposes, A facilitator of some births. Each day I exhale on the way Home to my suburbs, My malls and population density, The inflation, immigration, Urban sprawl of it all, The McMansions and clash of populations, Its fragmented past, The tiny blip on the map.

8

Catnap Dreams go on plane trips Across the sky’s ink. I scratch your back with the Hint of a claw, shedding like Virtues and hairs down the drain. You spill out on open ground, Soda pop I must lick up. I want to collect your sugar and carbon, Put dignity back into you. But, Trash is falling on the side roof. The polar iceberg has chipped Beyond repair. I don’t know what will be there When the train stops. It sped past Newark, the Chrome aching over An addicted uncle. You curl up in a new position and Clutch your belongings. Whole cities evolve in your Peripheral vision regardless Of how familiar. Change strikes up like a match. Manhattan is alive on my tongue. The streets are winks, The subway a huge lung, Feeling at one, Stretching.

9

Brush strokes You and I Are stone and petal Role reversal. You: impressed by Monet. I: impasto by Van Gogh. We squeeze Oranges, Revolving doors, And more. As we lick the citrus and Syntax from our lips, Wood engenders wood. The man is not fond of Our trail mix and Complex carbohydrates. Class A, Class B What are we? Raritan valley… Nestled in a Condominium, Branded by Dialect and denim. If History is the backpack, Xanax is the shoulder. We’re all Happily numb to the Weight of our palms. Will you throw the rock, My friend? Give us grace, Purple grapes, and Fear of God.

10

State of quasi-consciousness I want to think of something Other than men, love and sex. I've had it. I mean it this time. I want to throw this cell phone Into the Hudson River. I erased every picture I had of you As if our time together Never existed. I’m letting the current of life Sweep me away, Splash salt water on my face, Swallow the sand. Who the hell called me from Vegas Five times last night? If it was important, you should have Left a message. Fucking parliament lights, ragged flip flops, Chipped pedicure, Dunkin Donuts coffee cups, Black north face messenger bag, expanding My digital music collection… And is it sick that my favorite words are Fuck and hell? And any derivative of the two… These addictions are busying my mind From zen… And I feel like I made some bad choices Aligning myself with the wrong side In this game of spiritual warfare. Set up shop in Babylon, Living in a state of comfort and Apathy. Pluck the guitar strings for me, baby. Make me dance. Make me forget. What’s this say about me? Think I care? What makes things worse-

11

I’m haunted by love In the attic of my heart And by your ghosts floating about. I need these distractions Like a junkie. Shadow puppets on my cave wall… I have no ambition other Than to be as comfortable as Possible. This is me without strategy.

12

Wolf Tones I feel like a trumpet- Bursts of notes and air A dark timbre Emerges from Brass spirals Howling at the April moon Memories of Corwin, Life was ripe as A tangerine Bees were abandoned Jars of honey Licked clean I'm going to Midtown With scuffed heels and A bag of lightning

13

Theology A repertoire of names is Gnosis bubbling on your tongue A slug that ignites the canon Words build worlds In the 17th century, We free-thought the Bible, Classified it as myth Or poetry… From the fruit of the tree To the scholarly minds… Idea slaughters idea In libraries and on farms. Is something lost in the Weeding process? A fertile dirt, An essential oil… Agnostics feign no sense of smell Or sight with eyes shut. Why must reason and faith Cause an internal earthquake?

14

The Composition of Glass Glass is the offspring of fusion and melted matter. Clear glass is clear due to an absence of color. Nothing valid distinguishes it from other glass except lack of tint. The hegemony of clear glass would have you believe, at the cost of morality, by any means necessary, that homogeneity is paramount for all buildings in society. But glass is glass and this teeters on the edge. And it makes you ashamed to be see-through. The lengths it has gone and is willing to go to propel itself and its translucent exterior. When glass cuts and shards, smashing ties to all other glass, tearing itself apart, you’re left to judge that perhaps clear glass is lacking substance.

15

North East Corridor I intuit art everywhere: Where breathing meets history, Tree meets tree, And freight meets the sea. Art is found in The song and the note, When phlegm and words Get caught in the throat or sink Deep into your lake of fuss. The past is missed. It's stitched into my veins but Nostalgia is an illness when you see Ghosts of living people. I'm drinking a saccharine poison With a copy of Neruda on my lap. I'm swept away to the Chilean landscape And his love of penumbras, Sensing tenses and sand. In America, Conquering trumps survival. It's written in brick and graffiti. Unless you're a chick, Then it's diets and no power. Gorging and purging, Disposing income in receptacles, Swiping credit cards To feed our perversions and The leaves are no longer green But we don't notice since We are all carnivores.

16

Ferocity Woman with Honey and venom In your skin and Sunset flowing Down your back I want to look I want to touch You sound Just like the blue jay When your wings Reflect the sky And it’s clear All days are numbered So in secret You fly There is no other poet No other song with Such ferocity Your voice is dough Rising in your chest… Music that’s bread to digest When crust gets stale it’s Just another stone To throw And you throw it And you throw away Trust like dust There's a ball In the air Forging its own path With the momentum Of living force And third eye Open You point your finger. What’s the point Of pointing fingers? It points right back.

17

Open your fist For once to see There’s some Accountability In each little Swirling print I want to look I want to touch Railroad tracks Trace the flesh Of the earth Like Varicose veins Her children pull at Her teats Hungrily And I Am a maverick Daughter Blemished and Half mad I don't step softly with A broken boot and split ends I take out a compact To draw some lines but This is me You are me It's all a mirror All of us I’ll count all the stars With a prayer on my lips I want to look I want to touch Who am I to speak? This unkempt head of mine But I do speak The wild spark in my earth brown eye I know it's there And I hope it always resides there I hope it always shows

18

And I pray I am water. I am water that caresses…and flows...inundates...dries up... Soothing liquid and destructive waves...I am always striving to balance these tides. But the impulse to love…to bathe in love…and wash in love...that I'll take, baby. I won't shut off the flow. There’s too much in this sea to cease. Sip me up... And I will calm the storms...still the whirlwinds...keep her steady. Everything is changing today and tomorrow. I should probably be scared. People don't want to reproduce; the world is at a cusp. But I am fierce in my chest. I am fierce but also kind and blessed. And I won't forget you or where I come from or who I come from. And I pray. I pray. I pray to keep the furious child splashing around in my soul, wreaking havoc and having tantrums, keep her soothed and happy, quiet and at ease.

19

Metaphorically speaking Today poetry is Not in the moment. It’s trapped like a Fly in amber. Forever… Solid once liquid. And I… Am alone with the day, Pinching the cheeks Of the sky, Pretending like A blade of grass.

20

Canvas Sometimes the canvas calls In the morning. Its very fabric beckons presence And brush strokes to Fill the space. You yearn for permanent ink That can’t be erased. But why must the way you think Be your god? You fight tooth and nail to Win your side. You revolt against what’s right To be right. You spend a fortune to cultivate it… Your ego, your drive, Freud’s obsession, Your most prized possession. But… Maybe we are the masterpiece… Free, willful artists painting in the Mess and emptiness, Oil stains on our fingertips. I take the sponge and I wring it, I wring it of all the liquid And paint that It’s absorbed…