it's difficult ...

to make inspiration sound poetic
unless its genuine
and raw
hard to save yourself
like imagination carefully choreographed on a tv screen
like my people, instead of our people
like words that aren't your own
or someone else's story
like answers without questions
or the present with no past
like keeping time wrapped around your wrist
like working to make money
like death
like truth
like power
like giving god a name
like tasting coffee grown on a sun-drenched plantation
not protected beneath a canopy
like children growing up in cities
like a single parent
only thing, you'd never know the difference
if that was all you knew ...

I spent the afternoon laying in bed and listening to
The music of thought
Rumi, Leonard Cohen, Black Ice
Every so often I would shift and stretch
Notice which part of the room is now lit
And which is in shadow
My bed is humming, alive
The clothes on the floor, dead
My hair, dirty
My mind, clean
One shift and I notice my room through the mirror
That it looks different, bigger
Like there may be more than these four walls
If I just looked a little closer
A convenient illusion
I want to get up and look at myself,
To see if I, too, might seem larger than life
Deeper than this side of the mirror might suggest
But I am comfortable in bed
And afraid to sit up
Have you ever really looked at your reflection
And seen a stranger?
The longer you stare
The less you like what you see
Afraid of still water, shards of glass, or looking people in the eye
Quick passing glances, and you're ok
But if you reject the comfort
And security of the ceiling fan
You might fall into the well of possibilities
And drown
It’s safer just to lie in bed and listen to poetry
While the light falls to sleep and the shadows play
In the corners of the room