your equivocal smile
curves every hope of mine.
I stretch my hand
so the good can no longer
be distanced.
the blinders protect us
from the outside
that hides in the shadows.
my body encircles itself
with your physical thoughts.
with all the candid arrogance
that this morning light
comes with
it can wait.
At the stoplight waiting for the light
hand upon hand
san francisco nine a.m.
we witness the rushed streets
coming to life
bright yellow garbage trucks
with garbagemen in fluorescent blazers
an elegant mercedes
with an elegant couple
remote controlled skateboards
and hip backpacks.
Across the whole world
in the ocean
of this democracy
I stand with you
and the red light for an instant
holding us all close together
in a gravitational composition.
I look at you
as if anything at all is possible.
on this sea glass morning
I lay on your sand
by your side.
the heat breathes subtly
carried by the wind
bouncing off my back.
your every wave
reaching the shore
brings me back the memories
of the lost and worshipped
that now fly through your waters.
my eyes dwell
in the lullabies you sing
and slowly start to dream
with you, of you.
what do the ghosts
that you carry read to you
at night?
it all just dissolves
in your vast existence
and settles down at the bottom
of your feet.
the bottom that
sooner or later
will find it’s way to
where I lay.
the more you reach out
to me, the more
I fall for you.
“i’ll be hoenest. just need some weeed”, begged the cardboard rested along a rusted shopping cart. that one cardboard has been through a lot, you can tell. still a bit wet from last night, the soggy words were starting to fade away. just like their creator, the proud owner of that shopping cart. and inside it rested her life. a sleeping bag. two blankets. change of clothes with dirt and dried grass tagging along for the ride. you could just stand next to the shopping cart and smell the last 17 years of her life.
that’s how strong she was, even though she appeared a fragile herb getting torn to pieces by wind and water at first sight. her closed shivering eyes at night embraced the cocaine blues on her face. the scars so deep that even rain had lost its pride seeping deep in them. and who wouldn’t? let god know even he can’t stop a poetic meltdown of a human body.
lana, they used to call her that. i never heard her saying that. maybe she had moved on from her last element of attachment to others. most probably she didn’t remember it. after all, it had been a while. 17 years since someone last called her by her own name. what was it? she would dream about it, and that night was the same.
a lost name in the streets.
and like every morning, her curiosity was infringed by the eagerness of life built on following so-called destiny of the man. the circus was up and running, and the sun shone shyly on the hopeless and the desperate. the world died every night, but the skeleton always got up in the morning and walked. lana was aware of it all. her favorite phrase was, “been there. done that.” she crawled out of her sleeping bag and kept away the blankets. the only thing she had to deal with was the changing nature of, well, nature. almost nothing else affected her. “hey whore, wake your hoe ass up.” shouted a male doppelgänger from across the street. ” who you calling a hoe you ugly ass son of a pathetic bitch? come here i’ll show you who’s a hoe you motherfucker…get the fuck outta here.” she screamed back, making sure her voice was loud and clear to the tenants of the road from 2 blocks and out.
like i said, almost nothing else affected her. who needs caffeine when you can start your day like that.
a fine printed poster
of the fab four
stares down
at the wrinkled
blank canvas
of my bed.
“I need a woman,”
one of my pillow
whispers.
even the bedside lamp
longs for
fragrance of your
hair and
your morning smile
once in a
while.
Life in a blog 