Staten Island

The garden of strangled flowers
splits a path
to the screen door of a house
built of bricks
and stone
on the island
of elongated vowels
and exaggerated gestures

The mason layers laid a
foundation of generations
where Italian- born immigrants
made their living sewing and cleaning
streets and houses
Ellis Island certificates
Proudly hung
on the walls to prove that they belonged
And that is where they settled till death
did its part

Seeped in the scent of
six different spoiled perfumes
and one lonely cologne
suffering the shrills of no privacy
in the two bedroom prison
with a one bathroom cell
called home

Greeted promptly by printed faces
young and old at
marriages or graduations
resting on a piano
whose music has never been
consumed by others

Decades of collecting dust
ceramic plates, and wooden elephants
line the ceiling
elevated by
rotting shelves
Occasionally diving for death
to end in shards of freedom.

Serving as a refuge to
all the Catholic icons
Jesus, Mother Mary
Cross our heart and pray the lord
to enter

Each Easter packed twenty people
Children, Mothers, Fathers, Aunts and Uncles
dressed their very best
to bring laughter back into the lonely rooms
for the one who stayed
The last sister of five
never left her home

She’s seen it all
or nothing at all.
Only the stagnation of
a house made of
brick and stone
dust and memory

Found Poem

Next Station to Heaven
Pioneers
Pathfinder
Man
you
Off days of a travel addict
remember exhileration
Dremt in music
forget expectation so stacked with talent
A (hypothetical) hollow threat
Reject today's confessions
Ignoring the evidence
of mad, mad, mad,
one-note wonders.

Unwise Adventures and Spontaneous Dancers

I am from a strict, light-hearted Republican household that shaped my innocence
From my childhood friend’s chalk stained driveway her convincing me I do not exist at all because I was never baptized like she was.
My panic stricken heart racing off beat while I sprinted across the dangerous suburban street asking my mother if I really exist.
“Are you here?” “yes” “Am I talking to you?” “yeah” “Then trust me, you exist.”

I am from the oddities and array of talents my sister and I can perform.
Like holding our breaths underwater for one minute and thirty-one seconds. An above average feat by one defining second.

I am from my favorite tree that did not belong to me but kept true to all the secrets of my youth. It was a perfectly shaped tree just for me.

I am from unwise adventures, spontaneous dancers, and new unexplained passions that last a month.
This month: Hiking.

The past controlled by incredibly horrible timing during important events where my mouth should have been kept shut or drifting off into discussions and wars within my head while listening to the one lecture that will be on every test and quiz. But that cloud looks like a man praying, when will I ever see that again?

I am from the soul sucking social network of the school system that will never subside to the student body and their sleeping pattern needs.

I am from the shallow surfaces and two dimensional world I have cocooned myself in.
Slowly, opening my sheltered mind to the new foreign thoughts and ideas I once believed unacceptable. My judgments still strong, but are more in control.

From the friends I have been blessed to have, to the friends I have lost, and to the best friend who changed so many lives at the mere age of fifteen. She was my first best friend, and the first funeral I went to.

I am from the inevitable change spiraling forward as I free fall head first with fear and excitement trailing behind.