Driven

Driven.
By the need to flee…
abundant painful fruits
of an axiomatic belief
in seductive, powerful
delusions of control
as though ever we could know
by infinity’s grace,
all factors, all elements
all possible events
inherent in the creation
of one singular moment
double-tongued promises
of the spirited virtuous vice
grip the mind, commandeer the body
ransom the soul, creating chimerical
cocooning chemical catapults
slinging us like bugs
from merciless snares
splat!
smack! into panes of shattering glass
to start the long
overdue and arduous repair

Salty, Ensalada Verde with Onions

Peaceful plucking, flamenco strings
mellifluous dissonance, harmonies
ensalada verde, unremarkable request
impromptu noontime nourishment
splashed and tossed indigenous ingredients:
coconut oil, white table vinegar
fermented fruit of the palma real,
crushed garlic, crushed chili
crushed pepper and sea salt

Precious, unambitious
innocuous Salt!

Spice most consumed, by far by all
sprinkled, from simple
pimpled-glass-shakers
bought at any Walmart, from here to Beijing
Made in China, embossed boldly
high upon the rim,
tightly spring-loaded
black-plastic-suction-tops
designed to ensure “snap-on
uncompromised-sealed-protection”
from caking cross-Atlantic
African desert-dust and moisture
riding on, heaving on
retreating, briny, caribbean
trade winds

Impervious to fugues of fantasy
in quasi famished states
I cut hungrily into crisp,
succulent leaves of palish green,
cold and sweating, iceberg lettuce-cups
snapping moist against my dry, silent lips
hard, sinewy, orange-pink, yellow-green
striated, unripened tomatoes
from northern, southern nurseries
imported express for inauspicious
occasions, like an ordinary lunch
by luminescent lapping shores
extraordinary! ensalada verde
en Caña Gorda, al mar

Bobbing at the base
of its vinegary
saliferous, peppered stew
two small, raw
white concentric rings of onion
almost perfectly-sized
for graceful young women
to wear gently
around long, slender, flowing fingers
I bit in.
its steady-stinging, watery flesh
squirted
flooding my nostrils
with acrid sweet

In one fantastic
fleeting flash,
a firebolt
of memory…

A time more hopeful
and innocent with fun,
a foreign concept, the pangs of loss
my mother and I lie
wriggling on our bellies
on fresh-cut, sweet-green-grass
crossed at the ankles, legs flailing in the air
chortling with laughter

My eyes squint to see.

Her loving,
exuberant young face
beaming…
eclipsing
the early afternoon sun,
one surviving, conspicuous
glowingly chirping-yellow buttercup
brushes boldly
against my cheek
in the park across the street
eating home-grown
Bazik spuckies with tuna,
soupy mayonnaise
dripping
down my snickering, dolphin’s grin
and onions and pickles and potato chips
on our tickled breaths
she plucked the lone-surviving
persistent, cheery intruder
pressed it toward my chin
imploring playfully:
“make a wish”

A tear fell
sluggishly,
splashing with aplomb,
onto my plain
white
porcelain
china plate
of a saltier, now
ensalada verde
en Caña Gorda, al mar

Tazmania

Clutching cadaverous
for any protracted period of time
has a subtle way of seducing
an active mind

into fantasies…

of vigor
and return to robust health.

I’ll eat like an athlete
preparing for an Iron Man!
I’ll sprint like a cheetah
hurtling ‘cross the Serengeti plains!

I’ll train like a pugilist
pounding victory upon my chest
and hunt like a falcon
chasing the howling wind!

I’ll snore superciliously
like a lazing lion dreaming,
sleeping off’
a royal feast
and bask, like a languishing lauderdale lizard
thawing in the heat of a tropical sun.

To reunite with life with lust!
despite all good intentions,
these tall, concocted promises made
come seldom to fruition.

When imperceptibly,

the spirited cyclone catapults me
mindlessly,
back

Smack!

Square, into the middle
of a whirling shark’s soup
of busyness as usual.

Welcome,
to Tazmania!

  

waking from dreams

On occasion
I wake up not knowing where I am
I went on that trip again, to another planet
I think…
it’s the one dangling there
in the night sky
like a prismatic blue, crystal
window ornament
suspended, scintillating
the soft refracted light
of a flickering distant star,
where things flow flawlessly
one into another, organically, like jigsaw puzzle pieces
one moment, one thought, one whisper
…at a time
the one where I fly
like a thought without wings
over twinkling city skylines
and oceans vast with tall
salty waves’
metamorphosing haze
where I know every language
spoken
without a tongue to speak.
ears to listen, hands to write
eyes to read,
the one out there in here.
I don’t know where.
It’s the one like
a 20th Century Technicolor Fox film,
entertainment for sleeping,
story telling for the unconscious,
then I wake up.
slowly recognizing where I am
I reabsorb lessons
on how to navigate the impossible safety
of the shore,
by reading, what
I’m supposed to read
by writing, what
I’m supposed to write
by hearing, what
I’m supposed to hear
by speaking, what
I’m supposed to say
I take refuge.
in a cocoon-like compact,
feeling fortressed
by the freedom of its confinement

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