Octo-Mind

My mind has countless arms
Reaching,
Some I can't even see,
Some I don't even know about
And perhaps for my sake
May never get to see,
That is if my self remains as always
Never free.
My mind has countless arms
That reach.
They grasp and pull and tug
Like a baby
And like a thug
Like a weaver
And like a bum.
They wave fondly at others
And shake a fist at some.
My mind is making arms that will
Preserve my legacy.
My mind is making arms that will
liberate and strangle me,
and sometimes they both feel the same.
But my two hands that I can see
Are vulnerable and empty.
They sense the underlying game.

-Zenzile Greene
(Written in Bryant Park)

Polaroid Impulse

Sitting in the office listening to Fleet Foxes
Feeling a knot in my heart lessen.
An anxiety wrought organ
Starting to heal finally
From a weekend of over emotional workout
And stomach flips.
I wonder about his message
Why I cannot let go.
I am alone with it in some remote corner
Of my mind.
My chin in my hand.
I’ve read it enough times
That it has become an object
Apart from the incident,
An ideal
Apart from the intent.
And I remember again what I had wished for.
I need to let this dream die
And have mercy on my heart.
The past is a ghost that haunts my thoughts.
My heart is the tired muscle that needs to rest.