Tuesday, August 30, 2005


The flower pod, green-white, hand sized, bloomed at night. As the dead increased, the world of objects seemed more dense, different from when our child-days draggedor a sunflower's face, which, once arrived, was heaviness itself. And it was different fromparenting, when days were thick, years thin, or a poppy with a stem. There were more cadences ascending and descending nearer by. We saw one of us not reachthe hand-sized pod before it broke into the mouth of an ordinary night, though the hand reached toward, as if a touch would enter it, end it, or as though by touching what was strange there was relief in being plain, or one might love to cause an opening as when a blade cuts under blades of grass, or words are said, or if a mouth opens another mouth. We saw the hand fly back, the trumpet petals curl. It was perverse to be afraid; when the scent began, one leaned in again.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Time runs sidelongs

Our daydream decelerates our own spinning planet one millimeter-per-second per century until we have matched velocity with it and can stride into our lives and live again — a matter of eons, nothing to them, so patient, since the massed wish of all the dead is only the slide of a hem across a floor, or the difference on your face of milder air. It is their fate, they murmur. It is anyway their way to shun the theatrical or gothic gesture. They would not rattle chains if chains could hold them. It is the wind, so much stronger, that slams doors. They are heard, if ever, in the dramas of your dreams where you cannot tell still voices from your own, intervening, if at all, in the neural substrate, shunting a lone electron maybe or maybe not. Theirs are evasive and oblique persuasions, stone by stream, for example, snows on outer planets, undetected constants haunting physicists, eddies where time runs sidelong or remembers. Their delight is yielding, wind within the wind, to faint velleities or fainter chances, for they find among death's consolations, few enough, the greatest is, to be mistaken for what happens. When your eyes widen, they are surging to observe the evening's trend to mauve, and all you have chosen so slowly you are unaware of choosing. And you may feel them feel, amused or touched when your blunt patience emulates their own, when you sense, like them, all fate might well be focused in the exact glint of a right front hoof uplifted, when you wait, as they must, for that crisis of precision when it will make all the difference in the worldwhether a particular petal's side-slipping fall hushes the rim of a glass, or misses.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Smelling a heaven pearl...

It is a ring of simple petals. In a single surprise as if saying, this is not what I expected. It is color in one shade that doesn't flinch but meets what fate hands out. The slender stem broken and placed in clear water in clear glass, so that there are no more days outside. Near round-faced green petals and there are no bees and no seeds to form. And the earth that seemed so certain always right below is gone. And all it seems to say is I see with my one way of seeing that I will live what life I have left in someone else's house.
Remember... pain is as frost is to some plants: it strengthens them. Pain is very important in the transformation of a person.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Shine behind...

Listen carefully, something happens outside. Something prodigal. My whole body aches to turn from slush to fire. Think of something that astonished you. Perhaps, I believed, from the back porch I saw a woman standing barefoot in a hospital gown by the mutability roses; come on now, there’s a story here. I ask the disaster in and sitting on a kitchen chair she begins to sway in time to unseen waves. Her green smell makes black pools in the table cloth and I know whatsoever I have always been having done to myself was wounded out of her cold voice and the stiff height of the bed on the fourth floor of the hospital in which a pale a shudder a breathing hard escaped into stinging death. She’s crude, I think indignantly, as she laughs at nothing at all. When you open the door on a rainy mauve dusk and point the way out in your sternest manner, she kisses me on the soft center of the cheek and whispers into my ear with burning conviction that happiness might still burst into my life like a prodigious catastrophe.

Sunday, August 14, 2005


To see things as they are is hard, but leaving them alone is harder; rocks in patches in the backyard, the vacuum in the sky, and in the soul the movements of temptation and refusal. I felt a day break. Nothing happened. The windows gave upon a street where cars drove by as usual to the faint, unearthly measures of a music whose evasions struggled to conceal a disappointment all the deeper that the hope was for a thing I knew to be unreal. I can't do it yet. Perhaps no one can do it yet. The unconstructed gaze is still a fiction of the heart, a hope that hides the boring truth of life within the limits of the real, a life whose only heaven is the surface of a slowly turning globe. Yet still I want to think I woke one day to —To what? The wet trees, an earthly silence and the fresh, falling leaves of a first morning?

Saturday, August 13, 2005

Smashing particles...

Fresh smell of dew. Pale yellow bulb. Rising sun. At Saturday dawn. The porch lamp seemed a minor waste, although in the intervening days a darkness has replaced my bright backyard. The weed-cracked drive advances into nothingness. It's queer, perhaps too simple, how, returning home on Saturday night, that light burns like a stroke of genius now, elucidating moths, a wicker chair, the gate that bears a jaw of shadowed fangs, and a spider's needlework in which the small, shriveled skeletons of flies decay. Like props abandoned from a play, two unread papers languish in the grass.
Gravel. Latch. Hinge and lock. Each noise grows amplified like a cradle of bees. And suddenly it seems not just a day but a year lost. There is the flavor of frost, a cloud-scrubbed sun, the rush of something dreadful yet to come, not haze nor drops on the mounting wind, but soon.

Thursday, August 11, 2005


Here again it goes... in the shy retreat of summer, the paper mulberry drops its fine-toothed hearts, leaves scribbled underneath with faint veins as a palm bears branching lines. On the south side of the house, the milkweed swells, bursting with an abundance of silk. I occupy the shortening days with small, regular tasks, bending over the washing machineto pick the clinging hitchhikers, tiny as green seed pearls, from the ribs of my socks. Every morning, a trail of leaves litters the hall like the dried footprints of water birds. I sweep them onto the porch, into the dwindling yard. Hearing the echo of migrating geese, I lean on my broom and welcome their departing calls.

Glare labyrinth...

Beyond any dream, the day has been heavy. Several issues must has been attended by noon. But, the clock was ticking... no one knows what it could come before, still, life breaths... Mom then went to sell a couple bags of bread. At San Pablo area nobody gave a chance by far. Myself was dealing with a peak! I always hope to much for nothing. Hope dies hard, though.

Pulling over our vehicle, Chucho got inside on our own home with the news of a little wrackage behind the wheels. It was a small hit. He seemed tired and pissed off. And again, I hope everything came cool and smooth...