Thursday, July 20, 2006
Dangling. Waiting for mask on screen, screen as mask, mope etched in rock. Waiting for the right people to find. Waiting for a glass of light. Waiting for the chase, the chase, the chase, the chase. Waiting to catch up to it by the tail. Waiting for albino dog eyes on Yarbrough to get untangled from cement street divides. Running from light, from police, from politics, waiting for yellow tape shred into ticker tape. Waiting for god to show up and show down in thick grass blades, waiting for chickens to steal for the homeless boy on the run. Waiting for trips to trees. Waiting for misnamed frogs. Waiting for salt and wings and insults softened by I need yous. Waiting for I need you. Waiting for concrete ditch drain you called river. You who worried about your people. You who worried about tomates and apples in bookbags as you stepped up and spoke in a language everyone understood. Waiting for elders. Not for apologies or I’m sorry. Waiting for blue-green dreaming not ending in cliff violence. Waiting for blurry words in books to speak. Hoping not to mess up, hoping to catch a glimpse of tv behind the coke machine. Hoping for rabbits instead of chickens to add themselves to the hanging branches.