Breadcrumb #523

ADRIAN ERNESTO CEPEDA

“Everything you love destroys itself. Until it doesn’t. Until it lays bare.”

—Joanna C. Valente 

Although my hair flows
hanging on either side 
of my shoulders enduring 
like unwavering soldiers,
fuck the fatigues, I wear 
black on the outside
to hide all the verbal bruises
you conflicted on the inside–
I don’t want to show my skin,
no low cut, nothing tight,
baggy to hide everything 
I once exposed to you.
When you see my eyes,
do you picture desperation?
No longer… Watch me 
strip, survivor bold, witness 
every layer, every negative hold, 
I unhook, unzip and tear off— 

You can never destroy me. 

I know you always still try 
to redial me, now I leave you 
hanging… can you feel me 
now and all the ways you 
tried to display me during
the most dreadful uptight parties—
the mantle trophy affection object, 
but I was no hors d'oeuvres,
You neglected me as the main 
course and dessert. Still hungering 
for me, missing the way you tried
ball and chain me, I preferred whips
and chains, you restrained me— 
no more of my hair tangled 
in your fists. Now, focus 
your craving grip feel me blinking 
loudly, those nights so bored my eyes 
made out with the moonlight 
as you just laid there, always 
demanding you wanted me 
on top, always remember… 
every time, I spread, 
overriding you—
I came for me. 

• • •

Breadcrumb #522

MW MURPHY

today
I saw you
again
in the rain
in the bottom
of my coffee cup
in the puddled water
on Hester Street
today I breathed 
you in the 
film of rising smoke
of the fire pit
as
marshmallows
melted to brown 
and blackened glaze
breathed you
in the aftershave
lingering
in the space on aisle # 11
of CVS
today
I tasted your skin
all salty and burnt
on the windswept late summer
Chatham beach
in the heavy wet wind
on brine covered bits 
of broken seashells
scraping against bare feet
I tasted you 
on my own sweat
droplets
saw you
looking back
in my own mirrored
reflection
as showered fog
cleared
today
I saw you
again
in the windowed storefront
on East 9th Street 
you didn’t look back
when I hurried past
and when you turned
amidst the hipster faces
pushing 
at the charm counter
sale
it wasn’t you…

• • •

Breadcrumb #521

CATHERINE KYLE

The Angel of Disassociation taps at the sliding glass 
door and beckons. Behind her, the night sky

is velvet flecked with sharpened 
shards of gold. The girl rises 

from the computer chair, undoes 
the deadbolt, steps into cold air. Silent, 

the two of them pick blueberries 
that press against the fence. Their hands 

run sticky. Their teeth stain blue. Still chewing, 
they roll their cuffs, dip their feet into the pool.

The girl hugs her arms across her 
Sailor Moon shirt. Stares as her chipped neon toes 

kick, submerged. Says, Online, some guy 
just asked if I knew how to—the angel lifts a finger 

to her lips. Shh, she says. She braids the girl’s hair, 
berry juice smearing strands. Do not let them 

strip you of infinity, she murmurs. Remember, 
you are like this.

The angel lowers one hand into the water,
rinsing until it is bare. Juice dissipates 

with the smell of chlorine. The rippling waves. 
The reflection of stars. 

• • •

Breadcrumb #520

SARAH BRIDGINS

I can deal with growing older 
as long as I also grow
more glamorous.

I want to have 
fake nails, fake boobs
and real furs.

There's nothing more glamorous than
smoking for your entire life and
never getting cancer.

As a child, I thought
my mother was glamorous. 
She only wore silver because she
said gold looked cheap, smoked
unfiltered cigarettes ringed with
red lipstick.

The last time I saw my mother was
two years before she died. 
She was haggard,
poor thin, not rich thin,
clutching a pillow to hide 
a non-existent paunch.
It was like she had molted
with age, shedding 
her silk nightgowns, heavy perfume
and emerging a pale callow.

Now my role models are: Dolly
Parton
Ru Paul
The beautiful murderesses on Columbo in
that order.

At a cabaret show,
I heard Justin Bond say
"It takes guts to be glamorous,"
before recounting a story about a woman who
cut her finger at a party
then bit off the dangling tip 
and spit it in the toilet.

• • •

Breadcrumb #519

GERARD SARNAT

1. Mid-Septuagenian Blues

Was sort of a bull
back in salad days
when tongue still pink

but now I am more idle cow
what with dangling taste buds
extended to chew like Ger’s cud. 

2. Inner Climate Change haiku  

Is love the world’s glue?
You blame yourself and others.
Ban hate’s distractions.

Bless your past wisely.
Try not to acclimatize
to autobiographies.

Being human is
a bit more intense than most
of us can handle.

3. Anattā* haiku

Self is the center
of narrative gravity’s
rising and falling.

* non-self in Pali

4. Awaking From Delusion haiku

Heart-mind ambushes 
morph into nonviolence 
toward self and others.

Dharmic eyes create
room: streams then merge together
this present moment.

5. The only thing to it is to do it.

Snug as two bugs in a rug
after 50 years together,
a bit smug that these salad 
days might last forever,
I realize one of us will be
ferryperson for the other.

Can our comparing minds
find ways to freedom
through peaks and valleys
of dharma practice’s
attempt to decrease both
clinging & suffering. 

Wow, you did a swell job
when falling down!
Do we ever give ourselves
credit for disasters-- 
failed meditation or taking
care of grandkids?

You can’t despise yourself 
into becoming a better
person but it’s quite possible 
to love selves to death:
every karmic rollercoaster
ride wakens some heart.

More than those theoretical 
strategies, actual 
resonances wash through as 
loving then spirals 
toward ultimate acceptance
and even surrender.

• • •