Budapest, What Music, Origin

Cynthia Cruz


Pale, blonde phantom
In sleeping gown, I am

Barefoot at the precipice,
A cloud of invisible

Long-haired, white rabbits
Leashed, to me.

I am drowning
Deep down into the eye

Of the mind, memory’s
Glossy death,

A tiny, frozen diorama,
With a black and wild piston, in it.

And who said I couldn’t
Die inside the warm balm of a lullaby.

I have found my
Path. And am guided

By a warm terror
I dare not put down.

What Music


The crop God promised.

That I could not.
I could not.

The cry of a small bird,
The bright red seed.

Now, I am

And the world
Comes quiet.

I hold the living
Book in my hands

Walking through the black
Fields and forest

To the glossy blue lake
Of the sea.


And I will glue and wire 
the smashed contraption
of my mind back: 
pretty blonde skater trash.

Anxiety is mystical, it
feeds on me. 
And no, I don’t
think I can make it

stop. High priestess, lead me 
back beneath the warm 
brine-like glittering,

underwater spit of the mind’s 
sweet unraveling.