Ella se fue solamente y cuando mis manos tiene la tierra.
There are eyes,
There are her eyes.
Wide like gypsy moons that
can steal small children for her
Olives that bite and return, to sit in front of me
only to tell me that contemplation and monologues
can be refreshing and revitalizing.
Our hands and toes look alike.
Sitting together on the steps that
lead to the lake she said in sincere laughter,
“I think our toes look alike!”
I grabbed four of them and she replied with an
But, writ in bilingual
codes that a stooping turtle
once labored between the shed
and the wooden fence, and something a
painted dagger that pointed in its direction,
she felt a deepness and a fluttering that can only
come from the realization of potential, the all inspiring
gift of life.
Time has told me once,
“Rare will you find a cure, instead you will stumble.”
Also, in a sentence characteristically that of a bull,
“When kissing, smile. I move slower, as if moving uphill
or suspended in one of these things first.”
I have this friend, right. Well, she’s also one of my roommates. Actually, she’s pretty much a best friend, and closer even to being my sister because sometimes she’s too much to handle. Like that one time where all I want to do is sit in my room and read and she comes home from Improv, yells at me to start drinking with her and dances around to cheesy hipster bullshit. Or, that other time where she woke up at the crack of Jesus to cook a fatty breakfast for the house and woke everyone up, forced us to sit in the bench outside, in the sweltering buzzing New Orleans humidity and heat, as if we were children who wanted to sleep the day away and she was an insistent mother telling us that we’d understand one day. But, she means well. One day she looked into my eyes and said, “you know I mean well, right?” All I could do was laugh and smile. She’s nerdy, quirky, intense, intelligent, and mega-awkward, but her intentions are right where they should be and I will be damned if should fault her.
All over the world hearts pound with the rhythm
Fear not of men because men must die
Mind over matter and soul before flesh
Angels for the pain keep a record in time
which is passin and runnin like a caravan freighter
The world is overrun with the wealthy and the wicked
But God is sufficient in disposin of affairs
Gunmen and stockholders try to merit my fear
A favorite poet of mine once said, “I’m trying to find God everywhere.” The unity of it all, the plan, the Son, the rejection of the material. The problem of it all is with the context. We see with all to human eyes and feel with an all to selfish heart. We all see this world in differences, attempting to find that alignment with divinity. Our prayers differ. My father’s include the kind with the rosary, with The Virgin and the Cross,with his grandchildren and the growing stability of family. Mine include the human-to-human connection, the kind of connection where you feel the outreached hand where you feel the smile and the gulf between us all lessens and lessens and lessens.
In music, in dancing.
In living, in being.
The spirituality of being nonresistance is rooted in resistance.
It’s rooted against the stupid shit people indulge themselves in.