eyes closed [4] – revision count, prose poem

hmm, originally, i thought maybe i would do this regularly, try to make it a thing, but what does that mean, why do i write, why do i sit here and move my fingers, or my hand and wrist when i’m treating with ink, scratches and scribblings, lines and curves, pieces of movements that last for moments and eternities, eternal blossoms given by the trees, the mothers and fathers whose pillaging few mention, whose memories are lost in the opacity of self-indulgence, or sometimes, that’s how it seems, at least, no piensas? esto va a ser un poco más complicado, pero supongo que puedo volver a poner las tildes donde son necesarias, pero igual cuenta, o debería; yea, a new element to the exercise; not only must one begin with eyes closed and cease when they open, for whatever reason, which means yes, sometimes life will get in the way of something that you’re excited to continue and show to others, but it’s OK, because if one is to commit to writing for a lifetime, the only way to survive is accept that no matter how much weight or recognition one’s words acquire, they are ultimately empty just like everything else, and know, that isn’t the same as meaningless, check out Nāgārjuna; a comment on the revision counter – one might think to have identified a loophole whereby one makes a great deal of mistakes, errors of cohesion and semantics, and then goes back to revise them upon the opening, and this would, I hope it is clear, defeat the purpose of the exercise; the point is not to try and cheat, though that is to what most of us are accustomed, because no game that matters is played fairly in our societies, except chess, but even chess has had little ability to help politicians understand justice, how outcomes might be distributed in a community of communities; the revision counter is a place where quantification is displayed and shared with others of the mistakes in punctuation and spelling that one has committed; that may mean adding a word or adding and moving letters, but such morphological amendments must be enacted judiciously, otherwise there is little difference between this and typing with the eyes open; what grounds can be demarcated for this exercise to be defended as a distinct experience, a kind of training? without eyes, without the trail, one must maintain a certain fidelity to memory, a trust place in recollection, and submit to the inevitability that one, dependent upon faculties, is likely to disappoint oneself with first attempts, because the creation of beauty is arduous, requires labor and agony, doubt and scrutiny, vinegar and honey, flavors and gustatory leanings that are interpreted differently, for neural pathways are plastic, at least the great many of them, and what we do in this life is brought to mind by the interaction between electricity and organic machinery, the most efficient technology in the known universe, the human body is marvelous, and I look forward to studying it; OK, so the point is, should you wish to participate, should you wish to embrace the mystery, and claim that what you have produced has been cultivated in the specified fields of this activity, then please respect the boundaries, because otherwise names are torn from mountains and the cosmos is just the name of a show hosted by some Black scientist; i’m going to have a go at a prose poem, one about a young love, i guess we’ll see what happens.

approaching fast was the time designated, the slots assigned, the spaces allocated for, napping and chitchatting and trying to get away with it, the classroom buzz was reminiscent of a vibration characteristic of a thriving comb, and the instructor in high spirits, bounced directives and sprinkled discussions with unsettling animations, and Kahani was going to lay down where she did usually, and her best friend did not show up today, so the chance was upon him. The spot adjacent was to be vacant, waiting for him to take it. So he made her aware of his presence in the morning, offering her a sip or two of his juice though she had her own and his favorite flavor was mango, and commenting on that wavy dress that she wore far too seldom, the one that fluttered when she moved, the napkins that folded and unfolded themselves as she strode from one point in time to another in space, the dark explosions of the galaxy’s rejuvenating silence in his mind took the form of the beams that destroyed ambivalence when she giggled, when she curved upward her lips and her eyes looked at his. He was not tired this day, anxious to see if she would also be awake, perhaps thinking too about the chance to exchange in whispers trivial observations about the happenings of the learning that was more boring than inspiring, and maybe she would mention that there’s a little room at her feet, where he could sleep the following day or when her friend returns, so a proximity of body, marionette sentiments jostling, divine strings allow to be summoned chords of the firmament, tendons of Hercules, articulaciones de los titanes, the ocean sways in agreement, thinks Giovanni, when he notices how Kahani has rested her body, how she’s watching him approaching, how she did not get distracted while he asked if the spot adjacent was taken, how she on her side seemed a peaceful sequence of slopes, a landscape of innocence, soft blanket, easy breathing, orbs glittering, gaze steady and attentive, feet’s piglets wiggling, slight corporal adjustments to indicate a conscious presence, an invitation to temerity, to that cliff that is the possibility of being too honest too soon, too apparent to maintain the interest of one so mysterious, too simple for one so enigmatic, too brutish for one so liquid, too human for one so transcendent, too childish for one so sharpened, the essence of woman is too oft defined by those who have no business of doing so, but this young person, feminine tranquility, vaguely perceived Giovanni, she was destined for the halls of Nordic lore, taverns of immense proportions, sunlit tapestries and galleons of romantic enchantment, the fog may surround her body, shroud her outline, dissolve her independence, but no condensation would dare to challenge such density of motion. Giovanni reciprocated, hands under head, legs at an angle, hope in his eyes, he pretended to sleep, stealing a peek every now and then. Her eyes are closed. Her eyes are closed. Her eyes are closed. Three glances, three disappointments. And yet the inferno in his ears pounded all the same, stampedes of expectations, choruses of migration, fear of coming off unseemly, the desperate plea to not mess things up, to be dealing with a  person with forgiving in their nature. Her eyes are closed. It seems she’s fallen asleep, Giovanni mused. So he closed his eyes. He dreamed in the darkness. Kahani, having noticed his stillness, cracked lids, stared for a moment, made a shape with her little lips, blew the chap at her side a kiss, and returned to her dominion, awaiting with a new fondness el crepúsculo, la realidad tomada de las manos con la esperanza.

Buenas noches, entonces, damas, caballeros, lectores.

revision count: 32


prose [1] – plain beauty

The rubber duck floated to the top, stopped by legions of bubbles, iridescent hazes swirl like storms on gas giants as translucent spheres merge and burst into oblivion, a world of its own, a bathtub planet, without the tip-toeing shuffling akin to two kittens walking with little mittens covering their fluffy paws, that is, with no company of coherent rarefactions, and a little being is fascinated by the way things go, a giggle, a gurgle, an infant’s chuckle and glee, butter and saffron, sacred innocence, density of purpose, the weight of a new spirit born to be awakened.

A mother listens to the piano music that lands and nests and takes off again among the walls relinquished by her cellular device, and how the sounds of her child’s playful intrigue accompany the fingers’ glide, sweet the combination, a soliloquy of black mystery and blue skies.

Sinkside candles throw theater on the sides, a circus of spaceships and crocodiles, a march of ghouls with heads on spikes and women in cages, a band of acid parasites and mothers without faces, the waves, flickering, the capricious flames turned the small place for cleansing into a fractal paradise, a serious engagement between warriors nighted and the ambivalent self-destruction of life, yet unlike most critters her age, he embraced with fierce delight the incessant uncertainty, the audacity of the universe to think, know, itself as being infinitely creative and ingeniously bothersome.

Water absorbs gentle spontaneity, moves around and envelops the tiniest arms, the squishiest noggin, the silk that breathes, and caters to a foamy tectonics.

A longer reach with larger hands and worn elbows makes contact with the surface, a familiar sensation, the dancing contours of a comfortable presence, come unto nascent perception, and a bath is given, duty and privilege served, a holy moment shared between life’s cradle and its witness, a caretaker’s rite of passage.

Chile [3]

disculpe que no soy escritor,
pero me parece que la vida
es más buena que mala
porque aparece a veces el alba,
y al nacimiento del día
entre alientos
se abrazan las manos,
y le ofrezco unos pensamientos
a su dulce cara y neblina,
a esa sonrisa de la mañana

Sonnet [8]

Surrounded by those in a hurry to
work reach, converse, or sit, eyes dull, ice creamed.
A Unicentro people stroll, aloo
of body, soft-fleshed creatures talk, dreams memed.
Observèd thus a tree that stood, a tow-
er home for crits and phylls, young twigs and wings.
The elder’s roots dig tales in search of how
life’s quiet broke, the forest’s wood as things
is handled, bought and sold. From family far,
discouraged fools snack hate, worms hooked, dead bait
below, her regal crown sighs deep, takes tar,
air pure returns, forever mercy. Wait!
In your despair, my queen, encounter I
razón de ser. I hope soon we beasts die.


Sonnet [7]

In the course natural of that which we do,
there are but few who raise defiant swords.
Hues languid, ague blues, for some, to rue
is pain. Suits clean tunes play and watch, move hordes.
Political talks change but nay, yet we
insist with voices raised at tables la-
den, weighted by bones labored, anguished plea.
Oh, dear, take please. There’s plenty – eat, drink, stay.
Thoughts finished, beds await. Tomorrow shys
away not from men’s edge but matters razed.
When look upon a child, d’you witness skies?
Or fall, and pray, as orphans flee, fires glazed?
Around me faces chat; feet, hands, keep beat.
This feast, this ease, I owe to there, torn feet.