Saturday, October 29, 2011

I was in the morning.



.

I was in the morning

And I think that parts of you were there, too,

Sometimes I could feel you.


And we touched

Some times.


I was in the morning and I was,

Like almost always,

Strewn about, my eyes

Too big for my stomach.


In the morning

Before the light of day

Before the dawn.



Some of us,

From our dreams,

We ask ourselves.



We have to put a limit

On attachment

And dress our selves

In the suits

Of the day.



And others will tell us

What is up

sometimes

And we will have to bow our heads

And get it

And grow.



Some of us are full of potential

But we leak

Like water

From cupped

Hands.



Think of the shimmering

Flash of light

Shining out from behind the filigree,

From the watermarks,

From our birthmarks,

From underneath our skin,



And you can deal

In an honest way

Sometimes

With other people in the morning,

Sometimes

With your self,

And sometimes even

With the combination of the two,

overlapping in each other.



In the slaughterhouse

They will wake you

And juxtapose an image

On your face

And you will be read

And you will say something

And what you meant to say

Will be like the little white bird,



You filled her with water

And that holy water

poured from her breast,

From the ruptures in her wings,

spilling meaning

like watermelon seeds and stickiness and

pink juice

and in the morning it flew

and you could see it,

like a golden bird,

going.



.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Yoshitomo Nara

---------- Forwarded message ----------

Date: Tue, 25 Oct 2011 15:23:05 -0500
Subject: luisa at the umbral of the mountain


"mare"

to race
myself
we bet ourselves about my gallop
thighs
the breadth of my quarters
their haunch
the wind capacity of their exhausted
heaving,
lapped, tracked,
clinked glass
grated pant
collapsing.

you
Hand flutter
the hooves away,

brush opaque salt
off forgotten manes,
lip
for sugar.

Skip. Skip.
Skip stone skips
my short leap
of wanting
of one bridge
another

stone and beads
to link
drop
hop tranquil
whip

a rein
to separate

my island skins my arching

garland spine a
bomb
colored petal difference
because de noche soy
because
De noche soy
the mermaid at the mast,
a monster of a song called
shipwrecked flotsam jetsam

your water colored tumbling from
the mountain .


geographical rips in hide
of ancient delusion

How to tiptoe on the moccasin sky?

Threshold soy
tu streak
of coral lightning
my dividing
cielo mare
of
wound

of limb bolt wants around
to know my spirit limbs
I kick your heels
I spur your tuck until
I run
your lock
and soy
my own
opacity

eclipse me
into mare
of night
of self
de noche
soy
myself
to race
me.

Monday, October 17, 2011

Friday, October 7, 2011

dancing in my head.



.


“I could hear clouds emptying themselves of their contents landing on an indifferent earth; and I could hear the silence and I could hear the dark night gobbling it up, and it in turn being gobbled up by the light of yet another day”








.

Monday, October 3, 2011