Crying Inside/ Familiy Allergies
I heard about it, you’re crying inside. You won’t let it out so your body does it for you, brings forth the symptoms, and all of us bystanders seem unable recognize the obvious. Your sneezes, the watery eyes from seasonal hay fever, pollens give you a reason, you are permitted to cry. Tests say its allergy to mites; gluten got a high probability, but no one knows for sure and probably never will. The specialist assures the shots may do it, for a while at least. But can you quiet the reality of a sobbing bout that’s been building up steadily, for ages? Here goes again, the stuffy nose, red as a cherry popsicle, as if you’d been crying for days, decades. No, you won’t breathe tonight unless you take that pill, and push back the crippled grief, stuck inside the delicate tear of your long gone infancy. Tears travel in waves of past tenses, and stopped up noses. You carry others loss up to the present, their need of truer love, heartache, the feeling of a virus passing, scathed skin under a touch, an earache developing. Now, take a capsule a day, like most people do on this grieving planet. Or, you could cry for a week. I’ll wait here, won’t ask why. That would be a fine opening of the dam, main gates grinding apart, entire families weeping, up to the present, and soon maybe, allergy free.
Things that Fly
When noticing things that fly, vision strives upward, blackbirds shriek, common gray ones flutter on branches, loaded with nutlets. Beyond the trees, up above, a huge bird of prey, some hawk or eagle, scans the city by air. He passes over the buildings, gliding with patience, unhurriedly, up where time is different, and mountains mock man made towers. A vision wants to take off bad, again and again, to see it all from the heights, because eyes have wings. Things that fly say freedom is the answer to grief, grasping. It is lightness much missed, unworried mentality of space, romance with those things that point to the sky, isolation from unrest and strife. Time ages in the city structures, darkness settles in the limits of property, survival mode seeps under front doors. We’ll have no more of that. Better to have wings caressed, shaped by air velocity, riding the invisible. A bird like heart, fast to pump on a given second, at the first glance of a mountainous chain, stretching beyond imagination. Things that fly, our faith is coming of age. A dragonfly in September’s clear blue, determined chopper of the currents, advisor to my ascension, proud, primitive and poised, sat on the clothesline of your huge yard. The lawn was already dry, the wind content, slightly warm, and by bare feet connected to the pricks of toasted grass. She landed and balanced as a seasoned acrobat, stoic and powerful, her eyes domes of fractals. She saw all the pieces, my fragments connected to this moment. I walked around her carefully, while the morning sun healed my chilled bones. The broken fence you haven’t been able to repair cracked a bit more, and the tool shack I noticed, is sealed shut from oxide. Memories live in the museum of your back yard, and here today, the dragonfly acknowledges that your long process and my disconsolate joints wish to heal, to swish over it all, as she would. Why, your garden is a sunroom, where our day star tells of fires still alive in us both. Meanwhile she stares and bathes too. Her wings fizz, she energizes in stillness, charging her body with sacred rays. I came to your house last September , when the first of the dragon flies saw me decide for good. I walked across, under the clothesline, in the newborn autumn, considering flight my next truth. Moths stuck to my car, as soon as the weather mellowed to humidity. Neptune had just receded back to its house, and cuddled up to good old Saturn. The pale season came with moths, fresh out of chrysalids and all that happened inside. Baby bodies gone, retreated and dissolved, reconfigured to fly. Their new wings reminded me of grandma’s curtains, somehow they’re new but still old. They sought refuge in the cavern of my SUV, in the early work morning, when light has the cadmium filter of the end of year. A minute one settled beside me, under the rearview control. Seers say moths are the bearers of transformation, and these day they stick to me, as I change lanes. In the afternoon another landed on my window sill and stayed. At night they upholstered the panes to the back of our house, drawn to a sliver of inside light. It’s the beginning of it, the timeline I can see already from this side of the livingroom. Moths like dry leaves, analogies of the elemental kingdom, flighty daughters of autumn, November’s promise of tomorrow’s stable glow.
The Amber Pearl
She lay alone again, thought she might cease to be, in the disarray of the unsupported mattress, the humid night, her newness to love. But someone was there, even greater than herself, a pearl, sleeping in a cold river, reflecting amber light back into her head. She knew she’d lost, and back then believed it was everything. But one night, when summer began to dwindle, she realized she remained, above herself, as varnish sometimes does, even over worn out wood. Next day she declared she’d be up soon, tomorrow in fact, back in that game, even if no one else followed her way. Didn’t doubt her wandering footsteps, the coming of mornings, autumn and winter. The young woman thought that was all of it, when life pinned her down hard, just beside the heart, but she never left her. Summer nights were turning amber. A graceful hand had held on gently, just below the river’s surface, stars looking down upon it. And when it opened, the amber pearl kept steady, her space in the current so young and fleeting. She knows, always, how not to get carried astray.
Night Shift 1
There is something about the crickets Paired with summer nights Something about nighttime Sets the atmosphere of dreams into motion So dreams must be a natural tendency of night And crickets The natural announcers Of the time for dreams Unseen jewels at dusk Murmur of water Rubbing down rocks The garden’s faint gleam And left are white diamonds Elegant on leaves One night And the last rain One hour Remains for sleep Rain Time Slumber at dawn They speak about things Known to us only Things like darkness shared First light on skin
Bodies and Gurus continued
Rhaya got on with the program a week later. The lanky exercise lady’s book never returned to its place in the shelf, she kept it close by, on her nightstand. Now she had all the tools needed to keep herself in check, using the book as reference material. An extreme urge pressed on her to do it flawlessly, with total concentration. All other aspects of her life would have to wait, like cleaning her room; talking to Gaby, her best friend; thinking about ways to talk to the cute, next door neighbor. Everyday activities gradually merged to a blur in the background. There was still school though. The young lady had to get homework done every afternoon, the grind she had come to hate, with capital letters. She had painting class on Thursdays, after school, the only outside activity she didn’t loathe. Rhaya loved the aroma of paint at her teacher’s studio; the large sheets of vellum paper they used for tracing; fooling around with acrylics, thinner and oils. Academics on the other hand were a bottomless pit of compost. School didn’t agree with her. Real life was somewhere else, a place apart inside, and now even more, since her mission was set and clear. To change her body. She continually stopped at the rectangular mirror of her dressing table, and observed the bump of her lower abdomen. “Must be flat” would say Loud Thought ” is not usual”. He did had a peculiar way of speaking, like a strict, sour instructor of some kind. I could see his shadow as if in a snowy mist. “¿Not usual? you mean unusual…” Rhaya told it. “Look to others” said the Loud Thought. “¿Other tummys?” She asked, wanting further clarification, but Loud Thought did’t add to. It was pretty obvious to me. Rhaya was that kind of person anyway. The type to observe and listen to stuff that no one payed much attention to. Like how the teacher kept repeating a certain phrase, while the students manage to ignore completely, every single day. How some girls at school managed to look perfectly neat and groomed, while others seemed unable to achieve the look. The fact that some of them talked nonstop, chirping amongst themselves, laughing at nothing, never leaving any space for an awkward silence. Stuff like that. So, Rhaya took up noticing other people’s abdomens. That kept her focused, and practice made her realise Loud Thought was spot on, he knew what he was talking about. Her species of potbelly turned out to be not so common as Rhaya had believed. Almost all the girls at school had smooth abdomens, except for those with fuller figures that Loud Thought stated as being “not right”. Even some of the plumper young ladies at the all-girls school had smoother bellies, their skirts rested flatter on that area. By Christmas recital, when students were getting ready to go onstage, Rhaya’s heart and mind were far away. She dodged boredom by noticing bodies and all their peculiar differences. Loud Thought was a good spotter also, he pitched in. “Look her body. Is thick, strong, no good for graceful woman” “Look there, she well balance, face also”. “Yeah” thought Rhaya. “She’s so lucky” she told herself “she’ll never have to worry, ¡about anything!” Lucky girls would go on with her lives, unconcerned if the clothes they liked fit them well or not. They’d be able to wear the jeans. Rhaya dreamed of getting into the high waisted, fitted style. Already she had trouble in that department, even before Loud Thought got on her case. She couldn’t use tucked shirts because they made her feel chunky. My assigned girl never wore layered clothes, even though she longed to wear a nice preppy shirt under a standard V-neck sweater, very Academia. “Oh no way, no way” she would tell herself in front of the fitting room mirror, and that was the end of it. But Loud Thought flowed more words to her mind, once he took a hold. “I look so chubby, so not feminine at all” she told herself again and again. But it didn’t take long before Rhaya began loosing pounds, it was noticeable in her whole body. The Potbelly also got smaller but fought steadfastly to stay put. But it wasn’t just that anymore. Now she knew more about flaws in bodies. Hers had many. “My top should be lighter than my bottom.” she thought, while hunting for some visible progress in her reflection on the mirror. It naturally tended to be more towards the heavy side, though not as extreme as Grandma Henrietta’s and Great Grandma Mariah, who, by the way, never had a problem with their thick waists. But The Exercise Lady insisted it could be done. She transformed her own barrel like body to swan grace. Loud Thought got particularly insistent on the necessity of having slender arms. “No, no, too thick” it said one day, as Rhaya looked at her figure, reflected on the elevator mirror, while going up to the dentist’s office. “Yeah, I think I know where I got them from. Moms’ arms look sort of like sausages, and all that side of the family too” she rationalized in silence. As Rhaya got thiner, she felt hungry and cold most of the time. Low fat and multi grain didn’t seem to create that much energy. She believed those sensations would fade away after getting used to the regime, but they didn’t, it got harder and harder. “Its silly to be so hungry” she told herself. “Im having lots of veggies, fruits, beans and rice. It’s supposed to fill you up”. Loud Thought didn’t comment, but I was sure he heard that, he was keeping a close eye on her attitude. “I must be tough, I must be strong” Rhaya repeated during the day. Heavy exercise was also part her mission of transformation. Aerobics class every day, as her exercise Guru recommended. One hour of Gina’s class, the toughest
Dual
He’s hellish haven That won’t stay still And I know damn well Not one to balance. His lunacy The sane one Discerns the complexities While the other side retorts in haste Laconic disregard of our bond. Soon, Rudeness spills from his sly grimace In the hopes I won’t be able to tell If he hides Or if it’s just those damaged goods. He’s karmic A jailer A jail Too potent for my taste bud But I’m addicted nonetheless To the ride that goes nowhere. I’ll tell him on it and And he’ll have to admit While his twin self says no In supposed secrecy. He’s accompanied By one I condemn For having thrown the towel too soon For not finding the meaning A sloth in thought A poor seeker Not of my clan. But how it heals when tidal heat Exudes energy that boils perpetual In his natural hormonal body Could this lover side save the other? Can the evil twin sustain a clear direction A ball of fire in his hands Stable purpose worth my admiration? Can his flame burn in good rhythm Or will it go out in a pathetic flare?
Devotional
He’s still here but Is he still willing? More so than me Because he’s my crab. His scorpio rises Riding a bull Pliers hurt But his outer shell Glistens. The creature is all about staying It persists Grabs Claims Instinct devotional and He prays to me drunk. But for what? No! I bid him to stop And then again He’s the literary dream I asked for Unaware. He demands And I am his To come home to Vent Relieve. Why me? Don’t have much grain I’m nothing more than an oddity A crooked arrow Who can fly straight. What he sees I’ll never know Still he stays Enduring time lapses Under muy loose chin These jowls. He wants this joking smile My mockery of life These worries followed by a breakdown My sleeping body trembling Under the influence of dreams. Yes, yes, those things I remember He’s that dream The oldest one of all, Devotional nightmare Come to life.
Unanswered
Who are they? And where from? Old lovers, friends, sons, fathers, brothers Those who helped, guided, worried, cared Same ones who left, changed me for, walked away from, grew to hate My lost men. Who are they? Jitters arise for their attention I long for their excitement Mourning when they find another better Satisfied when they laugh it out Inevitably expecting A reaction. Why them? Why me? Who were we until now? Old flames in transformation Merge and part And we haven’t stopped yet Something reaches Lights our wick Impregnates our feeling Since long ago. They invade routine and fantasy alike I make believe they listen That they are here Drawn to me and I to them While they’re at work Away And I ask again Who were we until now? But no one’s answering.
The Item
There is a presence, an item, and it lives, without need for oxygen. But it’s not him, even if my mind’s eye insists. I made him up in the length of decades. After many words ensued, he inhabited my head, full of himself. He became a rant, annoying as a jump scare, never listened. But today I let him go, even if he imprints his presence, always busy in the background, ready to protect from the greatest threat of them all, loss. I created him, internalised the frequencies of his mission; absorbed into my stream the perceptions he embodied; took it all into the deep tissues. His worried presence, neurosis, accumulation of stress. The item fights a future he conceived in fear, almost a century ago. But today I granted him the possibility. I bade him farewell, gave him the freedom to disappear and to continue on as simple energy, told him he could change. I can differentiate now, and that is the difference. He is not human, but a servant of a will that is not my own, the envoy of a mission that I did not choose. Yet he must be appreciated, somehow acknowledged, and I do, by strange grace arisen at the summit of change, an eclipse, a dark Sun bearing the radiant crown of closure. An item to be left aside, to dissolve in the newborn year. He shall then rise as cottonwood seed would, in the warm air of my evening. In the meantime, I will fight to remember the way of brightness. Adventures free of expectation, clear roads unblocked, vacancy. I shall pray for silence, empty rooms, and a handful of future. Gold pebbles in the raw, the touch of Midas in my hands, a magical song dancing as a flame would in twilight. Intentional fire ablaze. Velocity inspired. He left in an instant, when I saw my fear was his lack, the familiar voice an poor imitator of my soul. Imagination transmutes fast, I know. Soon he will live differently, on another type of ray, a beam of tomorrow, dressed in clear splendour, waiting for my arrival.
Baroque
You’re so classic, almost baroque. Must be those strands, it’s been a while since you let them be; coarse between my fingers, opulent mahogany curl, streaked with silver anguish, and the burnt butter of your skin. Yes, I know what the harshness of grey skies did to our mane. You’re such a moth ball now, although I still like you in a suit, when you give off the aroma of a cool cathedral, enclosed, quiet. Time’s debris floats in subdued streams of sunlight, filtered through the stained glass. You’re a piece of sacred art, a haloed saint, looking up the elaborate vault, drama in your eyes, always. A dark background is all you have suffered, your orbe the only light in the portrait, and your exquisite hands, my very own Greco. You’re a grand organ for sure, a monumentalist, and it’s sort of embarrassing, but I stay and listen. Dark eyes can hide under extremist brows and yet, gentle light infuses the swivelling colonnades of our lives. Sound might mellow your whisper to low confidence, and rise then triumphant, booming like the cinema. Colours march out the grand pipes in patterns, repetitive, like you opening the door for me since we first met and, I daresay, forever. Jubilees outside my window, the morning mist. Thunderstorms through the late afternoon, it’s all you, a prelude, so tocata, a fugue.