almanac

subConcious

By Jonas Gomez Tijerino 

I had a dream I was a science communicator.

I traded my papayas and banana

leaves

for quasars

and robitussin

and there I sat

at my desk—black and white—longing

for pink and green, cuffed to

“the cat is gray,”

not the color of concrete

when it rains

nor the color of a muddy

creek,

just gray.


I had a dream Michelle Obama was my tia.

All my life she told me when they go low,

we go high, but I went low

and lower

      and lower

             and lower

until I

sank past Styx.

And there I waited

for someone to come to the rescue,

for Michelle to come to my rescue,

but she couldn’t find me.

When I made my way back, I learned

she hadn’t noticed

I was gone.


I had a dream I was a man.

I looked in the mirror and saw

a chiseled chin, full beard (eight-inch growth),

the nose of a Greek God

Miskito God,

dark, bronze skin,

eyebrows sharper than

frozen rain drops,

20/20 vision,

and a fade

with a three-inch curl

on top.

I looked in the mirror and huffed

I am Man.

But I peeked a gray hair,

and I plucked it.

I peeked a pimple, I popped it.

Some dirt, I wiped it.

ScratchAndClawAndPopAndShave

ScratchAndClawAndPopAndShave

and wipe

and clean

and I looked in the mirror

and there was me

and I thought

More?

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