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Showing posts from June, 2013

Heels

As mentioned in a previous post, the shadorma supposedly originated in Spain. While my wife and I were sitting entranced in the Palau di Musica in the balconies of a flamenco concert, I got inspired. Here's a shadorma series written during the concert.

They don't smile,
but who could when you
sound like a
gunshot in
a thunderstorm? The sound comes
from a deep desire.

But for what?
Because even when
the song is
built on true
happiness, she is
dressed in passion, licking at
the air for her love.

Her arms spell
lust, extended in
the shadows:
permanent
reminders
that when the sun comes up, she
will no longer be.

Salvando
una historia,
son de los
gipses, they
are salvaged from night, born from
its sacred magic.

After Spain

My wife and I just spent 11 lovely, spellbinding days in the heart of Barcelona, Spain. We stayed in this lovely apartment in L'Eixample, what can be considered the business center of Barcelona. The temperature, though touted as being extreme heat (which to all of you in Austin this will sound ridiculous), didn't peak above 85 Fahrenheit. There was a constant breeze blowing, and while the weather was amazing, and the people were gracious, I couldn't help but think to myself that this place is the birthplace of Texas. This is birthplace of the frontera.

Spain has such a unique history, being one of the first countries to organize themselves well enough to travel across the Atlantic Ocean and establish a claim in the New World. From there, they attacked the southern United States in the same fashion the Spaniards reclaimed their territory from the Moors. Since then, the country has seen numerous revolutions, the most recent being the Spanish Civil War, in which hundreds of R…

Dying Old Man

Dying old man,
you've made your life a pistol,
the rounds spent and smoking,
gathering at your feet.

Do you hang your full metal jacket
on the coat rack
there in the hall
at the end of the day?

I pass by it before
my blacken'd old watering can
drips my noose
onto the weathered floor.

I have to ask myself
how I made it to this point
where the oily black polish
rubbed itself silver

and the weathered floor
lost its lustre.
I can only think it was
time for me to limb up

with the oaks, sky,
lands, and seasons
and find a way to gently
sway in and out of the birds' nests.

Polish your pistol,
dear dying old  man,
and search out the ends,
riddled and scattered,

scarred and smoking,
gathering at your feet
while I ponder the world
beyond your doorstep.

It Takes One

From the nursery,
the lantana was yellowed.
Why we bought that one,
is beyond me,
but my wife was insistent
that that be the one we take home.
I wanted the one with the blooms.

They create a berry
before they create the flower;
it's inedible,
but then again, so
are a lot of things.

In the midmorning,
before the sun hits its zenith
and boils over,
she is there in the garden,
her fingers slowly working
the soil like a
baker.
The plants grow in her footprints,
making it easy for her to move.
I sip my coffee and watch her
float from the fennel to the ferns.
So this lantana,
blackened as it was,
was probably perfect for her.
She took it into her arms,
a doting mother,
not looking down at it,
but straight forward,
confident,
modeling confidence.

I dig her hole
and she nods her assent.
Good enough,
she says,
and smiles at me.
I step back because I can't
watch her transform.
My eyes cannot grasp her.
Every night,
this thing,
this lifeless twig,
sees her.
She comes out in the mor…

Cement and Chuckles

Flash fiction!

I am a chuckler. You know, one of those guys who just randomly lets out a chuckle on the bus, in the park, in bed.
I was helping out a friend of mine (who is not a chuckler, but more of a giggler, but only when aggravated) put up a brick wall in his basement when I let out a chuckle.
"What's up, Mal?" The beautiful thing about Smitty (not his real name) is that he hasn't gotten tired of asking me why I chuckle.
I, clearing my throat, "have you ever read 'The Cask of Amontillado?'" I layered in another brick to the top of the wall.
"Nope."
"Really? Not even in high school?" I put some more mortar on the brick I just laid.
"Nope. I didn't go to a fancy school like you. Public education right here."
"Huh." I chuckled again.
"Why do you ask?" He was working the bottom, checking the mortar with his finger.
"Well," I said as I laid down the next brick. "There are these two frie…

Child, You are Mine

I cried for you today,
the childish dreams of
an old man,
wishing to see you be in
the new world
while the
scalding drops
drip and dribble
fermenting and embalming
our footprints in the tile.

You've made it.
I should be proud of that.
Instead, I am afraid.
I am afraid I have
left you in a place where
your little eyes cannot see
and your little hands cannot hold.

But I soon realize that your
vision is clearer than mine,
your hands stronger than mine
and it was I who brought you there.

We no longer play like children;
we work like adults.

Read, Read like Red

Read me,
she said as her
hand slid down past
my knobby hips.
Read me like a book
and feel the red
rush into my mouth.

You will taste my red,
my lovely red,
that becomes the
air I breathe
and subdues you while
you taste my red.

What does it taste like
on your tongue
in between your teeth
and soft palette?
Does it taste like desire?
Does it taste like passion?
Or, does my red taste like
death
slowly creeping into your bones
and drying out your intestines?

You shall sit on my red,
my blood red,
my pain and anger
and love and
passion
and become
a god
inside the core of me and my
body.

Touch my red.
See it swim in sin
and drown on the
cool black of forest.

Then, and only then,
when the moon lights
upon our extended torsos,
will you feel the heat
coming from
boiling from
seeping from
deciding from
where
only the being inside does my bidding.

Touch my red and make me
cross that line.