When You Wake

Hours later, of the root word, from a dream about seeing dinosaurs flying outside your night window. Flying dark hard skin and red eyes--- invisible to the world. And the rain had come, the wind a storm that tore out the windows, the rain tearing books and the room no longer a shelter.

The Metro Moves

On cars towards fast food, breakfast on Maundy, Lent now a vacation and no longer suffering solemnity. Look at your children, Father. The morning wind is cool gray. You wonder about these shaded ants and rats, the beaches that would be swarmed. Questions interrupt--- Questions about vows to love and now occupied by fucks. There, There, Right, There, Learn.

Spore S and this spoke of boxes and wonder if it sees that they are cages and coffins. This language now for the higher brow.

Filling

There is this hunger that you feel that you fill with tastes--- sweet and salty inverted and reversed. Happiness is those first seconds of seeing the children, their smiles and squeals as they run to you. The hugs despite the dust of the nine hours on the road. Those two pictures then taken of home--- the smiles and the hugs. Perhaps you will be happier when you have a child, who knows. You want to cry with happiness.

In the shower, you were talking to your mother in your head; about how sometimes you could not tell what was left from the right--- questions about marriage and how a woman survives being left behind by years. How it is to be this old and married to the same man. Why one stayed and held on even when the other wanted to leave. How is it that husbands can simply choose to walk away from wives and children just with a shrug.

Searching Space

Like falling asleep on the couch and sinking finally into the safety of long and dreamless sleep. On that sofa, a little boy snuggles close to you, talks about his graduation and how he likes Math and National Geographic and Discovery, munching on corn bits like a man munches on tidbits while watching TV. He remarks about Mr. Bean shaving his head and that his father is like that, isn’t he?

It’s been months and children are not the fools the world thinks who easily forget. You tell him that his father is gone, left, no longer coming back--- the same words from half a year ago. You ask him--- because you’ve always talked to this boy as an adult even when he was just a baby--- if he wants to see his father, to talk to him. He says yes.

In your head you reply, He has no rights to you. He relinquished it. He ran away from it. There is anger once again and you call that Kubarde that son of a bitch.

Spore S cautions, “Be careful with your adjectives. You did not really say that to the boy, did you?” You say that you are careful, that at least that s.o.b. has not been declared dead and gone to hell in this reality.

Instead you caution the boy to not be like the usual man, to not run away when life calls you to be a man even when you’re not ready. Just a boy, really, even with aging skin and brittle hair and bones.

Dying Father

While speaking of surrender, the first daughter asks, “Who is your sister?” and what is surrender. You tell her that all her mothers are your sisters and her Mommy is your baby sister. You tell her that it depends on what surrender means and at 5 years old this daughter is introduced to the intricacies of usage and affect in meaning.

Now you listen to the Siete Palabras of Jesus who will die in a couple of minutes and people’s life stories interpreting these words. You listen to the sixth-word-story--- the story of a woman who got married three times: 1) Husband had a hard time being the man and stayed the Mommy’s boy; 2) Husband said after a time that “There is no longer a spark”; 3) Husband was a rebound…

That search for completion in love, its worth, in an equation.You laugh: IsolatIon Is The PoInt and completion means you marry yourself or God.

Panning For Spoons

You tell your baby sister that her two elder children have different thinking constructs: Our boy pans for gold; he would not simply accept explanations but would question them. But make no mistake: he does absorb everything and would make use of what you thought he’d foregone when it suits him. Want to make a bet that he will be an architect of future computer programs? While our little lady is a sponge but mind her obsessive-compulsive tendencies. That one will be in the business of words. The little lady had cried when she found out that her Mommy is going to the hospital, said, I don’t want you to die.

Spores say you speak in riddles and they have no patience for it: you are running on 100 mph while they are only on 60. They try to make you blink and you just end up laughing. You tell them that you don’t spoon-feed when it comes to thinking.

You tell them “Ketchup” and “Peace” and “I love you.” The latter is questioned and you sigh your reply, Ah shit…It means unconditional--- which is “ambivalent” to vocabularies that use the word “nice”.

“God is dead,” the youngest daughter at 3 years old then morosely say to you adults. You wonder if God ever got tired of this annual dying and rising up from the dead and being born at the end of the year cycle that human beings put him through.

You laugh and say to the youngest, “Don’t worry baby, God will come back to life on Sunday… He’ll be reborn as the Easter Bunny Wunny.”