Neo and Classic
Written prose, woman comes back to herself, she’s letting all that does not serve her strip away.
Omens on the AM
Synchronicities, finding meaning in the everyday, giving meaning to, reverie, realization, family curses.
Disillusion
Written prose on family, nostalgia, polaroid moments, getting real, what never was, what didn’t come.
Drive
I need only dive in a sea of potential meaning, fish for a description, a new adjective manifest in musical vibrations, from the Avant Garde keynotes pouring into the cabin. So I drive on, protected in a bubble of steel and glass, the inner sea swishes against its walls. Words to give substance, while the horizon turns an angle; the skyline slips behind dull buildings; the ground tilts, and suddenly, this planet might not be as round. I might be traveling along new geometries, passing between time lines, liquid meanings difficult to grasp. Vibratory air waves focus my gaze beyond the windshield’s view, yet the realness of the late morning light prevails on my warm cheeks. Time waves merge and part, colliding oceans rise. I take another plunge deeper, and wait underneath the swaying medium. Sounds ripple in the deepest green, ultramarine meanings in the faint glow of refracted light, a new change of tone, escalation to descent. I’m fishing for messages in a bottle adrift, sent eons ago by faith itself. Reality presses my lower back against the car seat. Behind my streaked glasses the road pixelates unreal. If only an adjective to bring it down here, to a moment, but it lacks sound of word uttered. Yet, it heaves on the rise, another scale up, another turn of the horizon, at sea, still far from any one shore.
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.
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
River
February skies my hearth, wind whispers my name transparent, knowledgable of its nature. I was raised in this winter quadrant, the Sun to the horizon, and they said it’s in detriment but I’m not bothered. My name runs through and is lost, but will find other hearths on its unpredictable voyage. Because I randomize, that is my fort, gusts out of synch. But today the Sun has snuggled up to Saturn, and I must see reality, fine as this day’s sky. He hints from his warm abode. An answer is born and is sure to last. I don’t have to push for it, mix it with others, or put make up on it. Reality just runs itself out like my gusts always do. Skies sing, they are taking to finer yet more potent winds. My hearth will never again be what it used to, it is almost ashen. But I see futures reflected when I stand by the river, the one that runs through all fields around. It goes on forever, doesn’t depend on me. I should only observe, listen, standing right here, on the the rocky bank. I close my eyes. A new gush comes, electricity in my head. The river builds up thunder, currents unstoppable, as native February must.
¿Did I Just….?
¿Did I just realize truth while caught in the motion, amid the rat race, the traffic jam? Did he just pull up his mask and smile? ¿Did light flood the cabin while I stared, at the dented tail of the car in front of us, and what always has been just took a deep breath, and then exhaled relaxed? ¿Did the past just say hello with a real face, no makeup for the show, no PR? I believe she just yawned. ¿Did I just find out what was never hidden? Freedom hung out placid in terrenal constraint, nonchalant, waiting at the bus stop, no biggie. As I pass the grey, abused underpass, stained by chaos, vehicles swarming, ¿Did I just discover meaning at the edges of my usual brain rant? ¿Am I now finding it funny that we should care so much, that freedom turns out to be a child? Playing in the playpen of borders, earthly limitation, unconcerned by the litter. She smiles nonetheless, she laughs, each moment is of itself, a complete story, no drudgery of carrying it along to the next. She’s quick, organically attentive, not in a rush to make sense. It’s a short cartoon, rich in color, mesmerizing, that’s all. ¿Did I just hear the drums of potential while stuck in a traffic jam?
Clear Roads
A bit empty, Vacant, Unreachable as clouds. Detached, At the edge of boredom, Unimaginative, Disengaged, The blurred background, A minimalist painting, My canvas almost bare, And all could be. That a bird might traverse my crystalized space, A plane might soar into the deepest blue, Caressing the mist, That wings might spread, New things could appear.
Strange Riches
These strange riches given, Stand crumbling on the sullen street of times past. Grandma’s house with its ceiling planks bent, A violent crack runs wild, the length of the dining room, Shut doors, melded to frames, Of childhoods past, stories kept, Flooded memories. But Scheherezade still waits inside Arabian Nights, Bound in real leather, tightly fit in the carved Italian bookcase. Framed maps of antique parchment rest about the entrance hall, Leaning on the walls, waiting for something, Maybe the final collapse. And I wonder, Those long gone explorers, cartographers of time, ¿Might their eyes have met riches just as strange as mine?