this week

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rx2MPAm3_Vk&feature=youtu.be

Cordoba

Twisted pillars.

Strong arms shaking

under the pressure

of a confused fresco.

A dome with an identity crisis.

-

Death was her final husband.

A sacrifice made

for eternal Sundays spent in bed.

Where she could

eat letters for breakfast

and choke on chimney smoke for lunch.

Only after life came her first real lay.

Hands more calloused than all this jagged brick.

Now finally she relaxes

in sanctified marble.

Stone that has eaten body

and been bathed in the fresh blood

of some poor farm animal.

It's easy for her to remember

the quiet grey simplicity

of the city she used to stare upon.

Back then.

She would name strangers.

She would walk to the river

and give voices and personalities

to all the playing dogs.

She would go home and swallow letters,

chew words until she spat ink.

-

Now under the comfort

of pillars reaching for heaven.

In the shade of a giant stone umbrella.

She kisses Death's forehead

every night

and wakes up every morning

to his pure, loving smile.

Ad Space

I don't remember
bruises and orange peels,
but I still smell
the blues and
I can't think of
a time I believed
in the sky but I
still feel. I wish
I understood why I
stare at it sometimes
when it's
red and all I want
is blue. I wish I
could understand
what is so beautiful
about the countryside
and why we find
the city so hideous.
Oh, concrete;
I love you.
I want to bask
in gray and sit
on sewer caps
and stare at
the red sky
that I only sort of
remember being
so blue. I don't
understand
why there are
so many colors
in a flood-arch
and why rain
is transparent.
I know this is
Earth and
I know I'm
still spinning
and I know it's
orange, black
and blue
but its a memory
I'll never have
back
to back
like the worn out
books that line
these beautiful
city walls that
wrap around
the equator
and I can skip
through continents
of colors I don't
understand
and I can breathe
air I can't really
taste
and I keep
keep keep keep
on swimming
through
familiar humidity
because knowledge
gets stuck in moisture
and I know it's there
but I don't
really know what
it is.

Sprint Screens

How is it that writers always seem to remember everything about their childhood? I read things like "I was in the 4th grade and I was sitting next to Judy Marlin in Mr. Bridge's class. Mr. Bridge was talking about fractions. It was a Tuesday," and I either call bullshit or become utterly dismayed.

Because my early memories are bigger than brushstrokes. They are an entire bottle of paint, knocked over, its reach shallow and undefined.

A green bicycle, wheels thickened with grime, rolling down a shallow hill--two sneaker-soles scraping against asphalt. My heart dropping to my socks at the mere suggestion of a kiss. Worlds invented in the solitude of Sunday afternoon. A pink apartment building. The time I could see my own sweat dripping from one eyelid to the other. A game of tag gone horribly wrong. First encounters (that, in reality, were not). Last handshakes (that, in reality, may not be). Sports abandoned. Fun redefined.

Or how about that time I was sprinting--it was a bet or something--towards a park bench at night. I reach the bench and see a shadow, just out of reach of a soft yellow streetlight. Thinking back, I have no idea what I thought it could possibly be--a snake perhaps (but in the middle of the city?), a disembodied tentacle?, a void into a dark underworld of rat-like humanoids? Whatever it is--this amalgamation of all things evil--it makes me stagger. I change directions on a dime, wildly overrating my agility and entangling my legs like noodles around a fork. I fall to the ground, lips first.

And that's where the memory-moment ends. Who was watching? Were they laughing at my cowardice or wiping the dirt from my knees? Did I try again? I have every right to know these things. And if not, then--like sounds, sometimes--I may just have to make them up. Seems more rewarding than just saying "I don't remember."

make up

sometimes in bed

i make up sounds.

or not really make up

but reinvent.

cars passing out on the street

become waves on sand.

voices

are a drone of insects.

startled sirens

turn to birds and primates.

wind howling through skyscraper canyons

is only a breeze in the underbrush.

yes, invention may be a byproduct of lack.

but the world is still our world.

we still turn at the same speed.

and someone can still be thinking of you

reinventing sounds unheard.

by now

It's taking a sea of will

to pull me from the shore

It's taking too many knocks

to pull me to the door

This seems wrong

I should have been long gone

by now

Everything he knows of family

he learned at the immigration desk

Turns on workbrights

for evening lights

And bamboo cigarette paper

is here to stay

I'll be right back

with an ashtray

From up here I can see

all the swimming pools

your town has to offer

And untilled ground

like wood panels

Trade ya

I'll give you a sip of laughter, if you'll give me a slice of your ideas. A penny's worth of rhythm for a chance to see what spilled out your mind's lips this morning. Some skepticism for some criticism. Show me something new and I'll do my best to keep up. Move me, and I'll move you back.

Let's see what color the sky turns when seven billion thoughts slap each other in the face.