Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Her gulf stream

An attempt to be happy beneath a rusting beacon. The temporariness of a finger's touch, a pressing thing. As the skin changes there is anger in the white left behind. White like island sand in shearing late afternoon sunlight, transitioning soon to a deep orange and then to sleep. Like sand forever shaped by the hug of the gulf's piel suave, blanca.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Written Behind the Turbine of Engine # 2

Anonymity maintained. No image comes to mind this time, and you can shove your other senses into a wastebasket fire of white noise. Accelarant boy, sidekick to the solar storm, haha never see it coming. Gathering words and abstracting concepts neither of us fully understands, not until sleep catches us lying down on our backs. Ready to be penetrated with a deep and lasting silence. Some of them say we wear masks to hide our faces painted in the blood of our fellow animals. We try to tell them, these are not masks. Trailing smoke in a downward corkscrew with flame like a ray of light from the clouds to the earth. It is with the wind of final approach sweeping across our blank looks.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012


I am a bull, after all. Cornered, sometimes. Killing, sometimes. Sometimes killed. I am a patriot. Taste of grain and blood and dirt. Breathing in the dusty Spanish air, el aire de España. Exhaling sulfur, charcoal, potassium nitrate. Viva España. Viva el toro. There is a war, a tauromaquia, and there is an enemy, torero. After all, I am a bull.

Monday, February 20, 2012

Cartography, in Brief

Delicate, bending easily to your clutch. Impressing fingertip maps in my skin, pressing so hard because it is so easy, so easily one may destroy softness. Like nothing. Like wind passing by, us watching the moon eclipsed in dark fields. Because our world overwhelms and blinds us from various light sources. Lamp light is allowed, from a distance, to draw shadows from our tapping feet. Skipping across chasmic sidewalk cracks, pressing our white palms together because, full of weightless terror, we await our mothers' inevitable deaths. Because our palms weigh down with sweat, a solvent that like time makes this embrace a simple moment, an impress of fingertips.

Friday, February 10, 2012

Remember the Castle

If we lived in a castle, buttresses and stain glass cast in yellow moonshine, warmth slipping away through stonework, darlin you and I could slip. If the castle were big enough, we could see it from the places we wisp through, and remark to one another, remember the castle where we lived? But eventually we will reach a place where we do not remember, and it is no longer the castle we lived in, it is only a castle, cold, empty, not a home.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Mutual Reassurance

Saying something worth saying isn't worth saying when a struggle in the dirt leaves a reminder of falling in black crescents under your nails. When raising a middle finger reveals your weakness. When showering does not help, and you must clip away and discard parts of you, flush them from sight, to keep appearances. Unsure if this has helped or merely seems to have helped, you must shake hands, shake a hand and when you are finished shake another, firmly, to reassure yourself while you wait.