doormilona

 "i'm so sick of your sense of entitlement"

let's break this down. YOU baby sister, metal monkey. 'M are verb, embodiment, condition, SO consequence, purpose, addition, degree, SICK perturbed, annoyed, vexed, hurt OF preposition part, piece, amount, group, MY metal dog, SENSE air, attitude, of ENTITLEMENT 

do i stand with israel? it doesn't stand for me, it doesn't like that i even exist. all my funny little stories, my swiss lineage, our beloved bahai faith, in which my dad becomes your stepdad, so many bendy rules of succession as we enter an aquarian age. am i entitled to inherit what we built as a hollywood version of religious patrimony in central america? absolutely. i have no children. 

and what did we build? a staging aria. a place that is mostly built but desperately hurried filled with dead spaces that retain all the violence of sickness, the hoarding of neglect, the rife and the cancer, eleven years of custom built diapers, short bursts of visits from abroad and so many goodbyes. we built it, that's our information technology. we also filled it with prayer and song, with music and madness. hours. family. 

i don't live on the phone. i do not like the phone. and i do not care for one people. we built and lived in our home two years before there were telephones in it, we paid $1.30 per minute, to ICE to call haifa so i could talk to MY non-israeli american grandparents. two people. 

sickness is a sign of weakness and fear. our bahai prayers ask us specifically to not be of those who doubt. so to anger at someone else's sense of anything is mental, meant to confuse. and i do not get sick, i get even. there is no "baha'i way" of doing anything, unless you have christ in your heart. we cannot think and feel at the same time. 

it's become a casting couch, we're all auditioning for favorite, from a stand-in of the good ship lollipop.  that's how we're healing. making places of comfort for the tired to have a proper rest in, for the overstimulated to sleep soundly and restore braincells from all this thinking, and thoughtless feeling. hostería y estancia. the business of family, the network of home. 

nobodyville

every single person i know right now gets attacked at some point during their nightly slumber by a thought they are sick of thinking about, some low point in their existence that creeps around with evidence, the will that was decreed from perjury, the bill from that vacation, one reckless mistake, the fear of neglect, the collateral damage, the sin of pride, tagged somewhere on social media.

the jolly good won't be bothered. they will sleep deeply, traveling peacefully through the myriad worlds upon worlds, divine realms not unique to humanity nor planet. the curious will remain so while in the death of a siesta. their dreams will be the maid in her home, the river and her border towns, a loose rendering of a party long ago, and when the demon of an aching conscious appears, the jolly good will roll over on the bed.  

dreams will be clutter bound to the wicked, they will come across knives, pens and spoons to defend themselves from the dark shadows that lurk in every corner of the endless shortcuts through cities. 

the wicked all wake up, at some point in the night, crying out for a spa day, a yoga farm, a sauna and an ice bath, to purge their minds of that relentless thought that ages their skin more than sun and wine combined. the wicked have thoughts, ideas and desires that are leached, encroached upon and hazed by the doubts of the jolly good, their so called reality of goodness and oneness, the country club for the lobotomized. surely such evil cannot swim in the pool of perfect virtue. 

gentrification is the capitalization of neighborhood diversity. it sits well with the jolly good. whiteness is adaptation to the quirks of the victim class. sometimes the streets of new york in my dreams are clean and modern, shiny. that's when i know i'm visiting the evil city. she has no aroma, noise, pollution of any kind. but when it's the new york that touches the east river, it ceases to be about the buildings and the ghettos, it becomes farmland again, and down beneath the bridges, all the homeless are gone, and the fossils in stones make themselves known through the emerald green softness of tender sea foam and weed.