Outspoken Linguists


a creative space for raw, progressive writing

Heat Haze

My childhood was a heat haze of vision.

 

Sight connected with the idea of sun

light radiant grains of refracted colors & shapes that appeared more bright

            than the photography that my family kept under glass displays;

                                           faded & cool, as if left now to simmer down into the film.

 

It was one vibrant experience of bewilderment:

 

   fish eyes following me when I went fishing

   hawks overhead in thermals restless, the

   crowns in the clouds towering

   & the wide set cusps of palm trees through sunglasses – foliage  

   showering down reckless

   with leaves reaching out to clench the waves of sun

   suspended above the asphalt,

   & me in the backseat of the car watching

 

                                                                        blurs in the distance, ripples in water.

 

The heat haze still lingers 

            in fixtures of thought I’ve been able to cling to by

constantly drawing.

 

Somehow I misunderstood the shardglass halo I had imagined on grandmother when I was three, with the three circular forms that constituted the sketch’s skeleton of an elephant—her own stain glass radiance hindered

                                                by my lack of understanding

                                                                                    of how halos actually work.

 

I was too preoccupied with function

a fascination with the mode of production.

 

            Now I realize that mental internalization is still poetry without any physical rendition, beauty found within an interior beholder;

I've been working on my vision (as a) in-a-sense.

            I want to reach the gentle spark of spectacle,

learn to become malleable & smile more.

 

Though silent, I wouldn't carry it like my self & generation; apathetic

but instead regenerative in the motion of doodling, like a reflexive smile of understanding.

 

& even if I'm constantly forgetting:

 

each tree has more of a demeanor than I could ever remember,

each empty space of paper is open to everything, just like each breath of fresh air

raising your head just above the water line, the imprint fading

in a spiraling fever, a precious delirium following

the subtle wrinkles that tickle above the pavement, flirting

with the sunlicked moisture & a saltlicked face

 

this heat haze

               moving in & out of me.

It's Okay Now

Ode to Change