One moment I am myself.
The next moment, I am myself.

The friend to the left has just assumed Iemhotep,
Egyptian inventor and scribe dead now five thousand years.

I suddenly realize the computer for what it is,
while Iemhotep marvels at letters and a keyboard.

Pencil and paper hold me back with scribbles and erasures but
Keyboards have that all-important backspace key, cut and paste.

It takes a few minutes to understand the significance.
Say hello, breathe in, breathe out. Appreciate.

Silk-haired Cat paws
her way through
Magick shop on
Darkened street.
Body ripples
as she jumps
up to counter--
sits and waits
and stares
and waits.

Sharp-eyed Cat eyes
customers
Pawing through the
Magick shop.
Eyes one whom she
does not like,
Arches back and
Jumps to floor--
head down,
eyes up,
hisses

Bright-haired Cat paws
Cautiously
Toward offending
customer.
Rings a circle
'round his feet
Squints at him then
Walks away--
head up,
tail up,
eyes up,
watching.

When I went home to visit, an unexpected
eight hour drive to see my parents, my father said
it was the nicest thing I'd ever done. Canarsie Park
is the same, except for the highway railings between
the grass and the Seaview Avenue side. I guess
one too many cars drove into the park where they
shouldn't have. Avenue L looks smaller
now, and empty, too, except when they let the
P.S. 115 kids out for lunch.

I remember lunch on Avenue L. You could get
a slice and a Coke at Joe's Pizza for a dollar,
and you never had to cross the street from the school.
Kenny's had five and ten cent candies, and
Cheap Charlie's had a wall to choose toys from.
And if you had a little money left, you could all chip in
and buy flowers for your teacher from the florist
who always charged less if you were a kid.

Now, Al Sharpton holds protest marches down my street
because some idiot firebombed a house.
Cars get stolen every day, and the
replacement rental cars are taken, too.
My friends have all moved away, and my parents
will go soon. Dad's sister moved to Georgia
last summer. Kiss Canarsie, with its highway railings,
rusted cars, and protest marches goodbye.
I'm starting a life for myself.

The L was the nastiest train in New York.
One of the more dangerous ones, too.
But the Canarsie Gang didn't know it, or
if we did, we didn't care.
We must have been crazy,
singing and dancing in the first car,
where the "respectable" people sat,
pushing our way through the crowd for a seat,
trying to translate the Spanish advertisements
and signs into English, failing miserably, making
goo-goo noises at babies,
laughing at the guy with the saxophone who
played "I Dream of Jeannie" and threatened
not to stop unless we all gave him money.
The girls in the group flirted with total strangers,
batting our eyes, squealing as we tossed back our hair.
Brian, the token guy, tried to keep us in line,
tried to keep us all for himself.
When the conductor announced a delay, and
thanked us all for our patience, or when he'd say
"Thank you for riding with the New York City
Transit Authority," we'd yell back, "As if we
had a choice!" We leaned against the doors and
walked between the cars, and it didn't matter
because we were invincible high schoolers,
showing how grown up we were
while we did so well at staying young.

Last night, alone, I stared at the ceiling.
Today I want to run.
I'm Sarah at the ball in "Labyrinth,"
flowers hanging from my hair, white smoke
and no mask. New dress. Chair in hand and ready
to break free.
Flowers surround my bed
and I'm looking for new ones
on Roselawn Terrace. I step outside,
turn out the petals from my head
and every one is caught in the wind.
I'm so clean & new I'm a daisy.
I'm a rose, I'm the laughing girl on a pony
or the stately horse, unbridled, standing like stone,
whose path we can choose to follow
if we can stand rigid enough.
My brain is filled with black-eyed-susans.
I need the eyes to get my reading done.
I'm reading Montaigne
who didn't worry about what others thought
as much as I think I need to.
He put away that worry while he worked:
he sat, wrote, and gave us merely his thoughts.
I yield to the flora.
I yield to the new day,
though every day is new until it breaks.
If words are flesh,
petals are air and my love is like a skydive.
I hold on tight for my life, hold my breath
while the air rushes past
all around me.
I don't want to stay here forever,
just long enough.
If petals are air,
my mind is flying away
with all of my treasures.
Spirits from my old life offer to take me back.
I go when I need to go-- over pavement & blacktop,
glistening onyx after the rain, looking for my house,
finding it the way I left. What can I say
for my stroll down Roselawn? Nothing.
I just breathe petals.
Even the lifeless rocks on my lawn look pretty.
There's nothing to do about the mind.