“My feelings are a stage, and the actors loan me an ashen daze, to which I must comfortably submit, I must conveniently pay. There is no sole liberation, there is only a constancy to which I comply, for it might be wrong to be the believer that may rue the morgue of actual rightness. I live my life by swimming between schools that could possibly identify my novelty, if I leave I might get lost. The planetary rules apply and revolve around my locked head, because they embody elements that inevitably blaze around me, quiver in between my thighs, make crooked circle that twist my eyes and kindle fires that surround truth, everything that could happen will be an abstraction under my possession, my unstable guardianship. How elusive is radical change? But if I walk away, try to attain difference, I know I will confront untamed comparisons to another life, consequently, instead I should try to translate the complexities of unhappiness to an evermore stand, and I will follow the nostalgia of tonic time”
The bells toll proudly, thru the way in which a street is hazed, flagged with fables, salted from grace. I travel, celebrating the minutes of light, and as I widen my revelations to dress the horizons, as I drive, I spark a bevy of memories, of faults, of cheers, of yesterday, and towards the secrets and whispers that float a star trail apart in the times that lazed here, now grazing there with no matter in between. The sea whistles a poem to be unraveled by someone of a caliber well known to me, as I had reached the waterfront, and the stares mawkishly mock the wind rippling auroele in the spots of the sea below a golden djjay shade, the electricity of stillness disturbed by the play of weather. I had stopped to witness, but now I carry on again, I continue my attempts to attain an attestment that states years out of my aviary, after the climate that dangles unfazed and perfumed by a spectral mist, that I drearily found as I was missing a path to escape, as I was searching for a spine to wear and travel further. The ecstasy of adventures drips thru my hands, amid my trials to reject or admit my admiration to the confessions of my greater half, my better mind, my sweeter heart that awaits all the way to the top, or discovering it all the way back home, which I have left to run. I drive even now, a little slower, slower.
Slaughtered, wired, weary under the cover of stressful notions and truth. Awkward seconds led to a bummer, happy hours to a happy summer. Yet I miss all the sights, mountains, and the long drives, bars of pleasantries, birds in canopied trees, trenched bridging the light that dwindle, fluctuate between nighttime, daylight, icing sugar on the sight, pressing a howling, scowling mood of weather. My length is angry, my eyes trying to recover from the return to truth, I still remember so many things, yet not as clearly as I yearn, as I had earned by simply presenting myself.
Institution and industries, part of a memory forever, evermore magic moments, caught under my sweater from the spills of milkshakes. I miss shooting around the shouts of laughter, and the screams of inner worries. But they were all hidden, hidden under the letters that I write to save a recognition, a coarse cognition, that realizes color and splits its joy. The time in dunes were fresh out of luck, with an abundance of ducks to keep tracks of lines, staying in a hostel was fine. And oh yes, I miss the excitement, the revelry outside walls, outside the realty sewn into jobs that make hateful unoriginality. Inspiration comes from rocks and wells, paintings of Rockwell, texts of young poets, lit by the stars and the moon, repeated in electric insomnia, cherished in mutual friendship, love, and the affairs cracked under the crux of legalities.
Soul, spirit, clung whole around the intracranial handwriting, firm carves of distinctive canvas, uppers pink and purple, factories, burgers and shops around the empty streets, around the Dutch beats, revolving around oceanic renditions of Israeli prayers. Watching movies, silver screens, trash magic, agony fiend.
With the rumors of ideas and delusions being exchanged in my specimen mind, I lulled myself to a sleep of pastel pastures intercut with red holes and bright lights. I was in another place, a worse world. I was on a map, but long I stood not in familiarity but amid assortments of stranger settings, on a swing set with blurry vision. It all seemed blue, a minor difference from my visions but a plunge back into the shades of the place where I had started. I wasn’t waking up yet. It grew more vivid, the swing was rusting at a rapid pace, breaking at joints, the steadfast sight of blue proved to be the sky, and I forgot to escape, and I forgot to shout. I took the choices less erred by, I took a path of apathy. I lifted my eyes and fell to the power of a dream. I crashed on the floors, but the reverie persisted. The sky flickered and cried before me, I closed my eyes, but consequently, the sky collaborated with the fluffed clouds and grabbed a terrorizing reign over the immobile me. I collapsed to the actuality – I couldn’t be out of my dreams. In the subsequent sequences, I lost my hearing, my ability to speak, well I lost myself. I was only my eyes. Then the rain came rolling down and took that away too and so I was finally in a black sleep, a true sleep.
In the sole liberation of a time that did not undergo my squandering, I ringed a wire thru the war calls. People collected at the printed edges of my books, two-toned solid checks of airplane silhouettes grabbed me off the walls, native styles, tentative desires, and dragged me past the evil motorways. The skies were overcome with rainbows of the history, something revolutionary, something equated, something a little Incan too. There was always the sun in my eyes, the morning after, in it’s final hours, closing my visualization. Ah, the sun.
The mistakes you make, you’ll makes them again, make them better time after time. Then maybe in a million nights we’ll catch a highway thru this hell and remember things not as they were but how they changed.
I suppose everything on earth has an extraterrestrial meaning.
To leave, first you have to stay.
And to say it’s never too late, you have to be right here.
Life, a free fire, freewheeling I, gambling doors of a home in the dark night,
barefoot roaring through the glisten of bright lights,
with the premier of escaping circling my eyes,
and my eye sockets giving bed to sunglasses,
and my shoulders blanketed by leather jackets,
and there is a beautiful feeling, there is that, to sing off the din of doubt
and to raise a thousand whereabouts, in the newspapers.
Beneath the grounds on which I venture though the quiet darkness,
the prospects start whirring, begin rattling to welcome me.
And I ride through their palpitations, I ride through their excitement, I ride through the danger, I ride towards a stranger.
I promise. I promise.
The magazine tearing of grief, happiness, coffee cups, and lushly layered advertisements, follow me through this closing verve. They can keep up.
- To Sarah Abraham
I hope someday that I will possess the world and I hope when the time is right, I will forget it. Secrets dawn upon the day and turn around the screws and spiral of the night, they keep me tied to a rock, and I can’t find the way to lead me out of the caves of jealousy, beyond all the hatred that is dusted atop the things in my room. It’s a cold, broken fiber that binds the fabric of life together, weak and sacred in an unknown pride. Spiritual darkness claws from above, maps the drawings of body, creates dangerously the constant obligation to fulfill in the islands of discoveries, shakes the places to attach to and detach from, then soon all the troubles toss high in the sided night and its weight crushes the speech beneath. All that washes away in the backwash is the skin of worry, the blood recedes into nothingness, and the soul floats away above the yellow hallucinations that wear the horizon. Then everything shatters windows and tears the drums to kill without shame the prospects that beckons on, “Starters need to come home”. The tables implode into a cut up of wood, the motorbikes arrow across the country and crash into Colca Canyon, they crumble and the riders sink into the aerial defeat, all the things that are coldly bound in the falling out of dealings, in the ripped vocals of vain contacts, start downing the knees breaking the teeth brooding darker looking for meaning but in all the wrong places – around the corners they get tighter, get tighter and bleed the veins dry. Meanwhile in the meantime, I anticipate happiness as if it were homeward-bound. True, that I couldn’t belt the country that death does apart, puts in its pockets and let’s seep through the graveled shoes, but I withstood the pain that cuts the throats, let the wanderers roam alone through the dusky dawn, I illustrated my path and I strolled thru it. When life imitated harm, when I sensed glitters as gold, I walked through the marbled rows, I marched through the impoverished lines, I crusaded through the emptied wastelands, and I paraded in the nakedness of honest settings. Every lipped breath that is drawn to shield me against the uncertainty of time comes from my two eyes and my heartbeat, never mind. I’m punctuated with visions of my hair clothing me as I walk through the terrorized hospitals and schools and I sing a figure absorbing, strips and strings of judgment wrangle in the cluster of thoughts that flock and hover, look up towards the sky, and look away from the trialed road and I will follow the flight of the scattered par avian, reading long lost love letters, and letdowns, life’s greatest hits. I don’t quite know everything so I read and read; for life is my atoll, wherein I’m aided by the letters of the people in lands so distant in feelings still in throes. I’m moved, move with me. Did you this time?