Unlock your creative potential with this Endless Beautiful session featuring the spoken word poet, Halah Mohammed!
- Marbles in a Jar
- Bella Being a Baby
- Lock and Key
- Forest Stream
- Snow on Windshield
- Making Soup
15 minute Poem:
I didn’t recite this part (Wrinkles in time only disturb the mind into small walks down lanes you tried to hide behind caution tape. What was it you were afraid of? You seem to fear everything. Your heart like a metronome ticking in time with rhythm of what you can’t escape–the new scape.)
What I recited:
Warp your mind into a thousand clocks with the same hands touching different times. Be in a zone not your own, nothing like what you’ve come to know. Grow into the fear of an illusion. See the pictures projected for what it is–amusement. Nothing real about tele but the material that holds onto it. Nothing sad about life unless you’re not the one living it. And even then, where’s your conscience gone? Mama thinks it takes a trip. Forget the slip of innocence it won’t follow you past the exit. You want assurance like guaranteed. Like approval stamps. Like check marks. Like 100%. Like this is yours. Like your names the title of it. Like you wrote it. Like you are it. Like you own it. Like you bought it. But even then people steal, people kill, people plan, people plot, people want what you got. Survival isn’t only for you. Remember that when you’re not seeing you in anything. And the feeling of misery is a numbing pain that comes again and again. Nothing real about tele but the material that holds onto it. Stop sulking like family hospital visits. Stop worrying like pubescents and adolescents. Stop thinking the only view is from your eyes–those things lie
The hot glass rolls and swings around his fingers, salamanders in a stream, a motorized cat waiting in the reeds. Mewing for a meal that it couldn’t eat.
This is not the future.
The world is a strange thing. Interconnected communities, molecules of carbon passing through the lungs of a workman cutting his boot, 200 hundred years prior, now passing over the transistors and nodes of a power drill being sunken in a deep sea explorer destined to implode.
It has been written.
In the encyclopedic and sometimes pornographic archive of the world. Until that world ends with a hum, and a new one begins with the jangle of key.
Cracked wooden stairs are good hiding points for flecks of metal shaven from repeated use of a lock. Aluminum slivers driven deep into the corkwork of old pine and oak boards by leaky shoes worn to the sole on the inside heel and by the thunderous echoes of doors slammed shut.
Post, pre, and post apocalyptic sealife, some say seals rolling upon rocks will inhabit the space of those silver flecks, forged in the fires of humanness. The metal will press down into their thick grey skin, float past their bellies, into the eyes of the suns that eventually will inhabit that very same space.
This has been written, too.
Slipping, marbles of quartz glass on the dunescape,
cats with yellow fearful eyes, splinters of night
licked between their paws in the treaded sand.
The wind creaks like an old bone.
A hidden god in the mesquite bush gnaws clean
a fresh blade, a rib, a knuckle, a souvenir
to store in the time seal, in a hundred years
the wave of the dune will pass over,
its crest fallen like a deep breath, locked
and unkeyed from the ground.
The dune is the shape of the key.
The dune will lure you into the peephole.
The mesquite will knock their elbows
as you lay between the fish skewed lenses,
your head too big and body too small,
looking inward and outward
and no longer knowing the door.
Drink the illusion.
Do not let anyone speak to you.
Climb and slip, you, granular mass.
Shed something. Another. Drop it. Now.