swim in blue

i finally used the key to open the gate and let myself in. summer was over and i was thankful. i set the water in motion, immersing myself complete. what a sensation. i left it alone and a trail of dripping wet. above and looking down from where i hung my clothes, i noticed the light show. a translation of my form. a liquid print. what was left of my rhythm. illuminated by the sun in blue. something understood me.

blue 2

she was not sad. she hid in the mountainside when the rains came hard like tropical noon. once tranquil she was now and then a monsoon. downcast from time to time. rivers caught the swollen tears of fortune. she irrigates our lands. so to feed our children. for to carry on and on and on

÷÷ the blue lady ÷÷

she may have been depressed but she was not sad she hid in the mountainside when the rains came hard like tropical noon. she once was tranquil now a monsoon. the blue lady was downcast from time to time and only we were lucky to catch her swollen tears in our banks. we irrigate our lands and feed our children for to carry on and on and on and on…

÷÷÷this post was inspired by the painting the blue lady by Tameeka Knox, an artist from Sacramento.÷÷÷

seeing blue

what can i tell you when i feel discouraged and you feel discouraged, too? all i can tell you is look, we all get down and see blue. all i see in you is you are real with that feeling, you are holding, exuding the pain. this is making you more of who you are. someone i can love. you are real to me. i can see your struggle in your eyes and hear it in your words. the depth of your blues mirrors my own, and you touch me where before i was alone.

efface the place

Such a prodigious commentary rolled out of a disconnected narrative. All the ghosts of old mama Bell had to glom together as operators, pulling and pushing their wires into that old electronic wall. All the calls incoming got patched through, and where hello meets goodbye, a patch could efface the English language, in any such redirection, the power of the women at the wall, operators, any which way. And blue came across the neurons and fired them off like static and clung to the statement preceding. Contradictions were contradicted and life would go on this way through the world wars, and endless series of splicing and bringing people together through a wire. Afflicted with afflictions, some operators were, and found peace only after the in betweens of their shifts and smoke long breaks twirled away. Nobody always knew nothing could turn into something when a push met a pull and were patched away from blue to gray. There were often a few kids meanwhile caught like in spiderwebs, tied up in an apron by a hem.

‘operators at the hem’ by K

promise

once there was a boy named bee

upon my knee
softly telling me how rivers
did not reach the sea in the year
twenty twenty three
some were black others blue
in twenty twenty two
and none could you wash your
self in
his eyelashes fluttered
feeling me shudder
i could tell
he honestly knew
he unbuttoned my collar
i cried and hollered and then he promised
just breathe
then rolled up our sleeves so carefully
we could see those cuts on
our arms
with one finger
he crossed my lips
tenderly looking into my eyes
and
we existed quietly there
until about quarter past one
bee upon my knee
and me
i wondered if all of the darkness
 he shared
could
     ever
         be
          undone
yet i knew our
                 pain
             was
         the
same
– KatYa, 2017