Remember how you once were
the ice cream vendor
on a hot summer day?
A smile…
And then your sunken eyes
reflect the truth
the way the sea recedes
and reveals empty shells.
Aren’t you a shell?
A hardened hollow structure
of vestiges from an ambitious past,
crudely assembled by unsure hands.
The years have caught up with you
and left much behind,
littering your memories
at each familiar turn.
I am right beside her
Lying in bed
We are awake and aware
Our hearts not in our occupations
Overworking our idleness
Just praying for the other
To fall asleep
She relents
I rejoice
And then a minute later
I sleep myself
Surely one day
I’ll roam the streets of Guadalajara
the way it befits them.
Now, bound by my feet,
subject to my senses that
influence more than just
the purposeless splash of colour,
the true sentence,
the unremarkable feeling or detail,
I recognize the irony
of being imprisoned within
my scaffold of convenience.
The way is long and unfamiliar,
as far adrift from the world
as my understanding of it,
and as free of inhibitions and restraints,
as I might never be comfortable with.
The rough cracked undergrowth
doesn’t hurt much
now that a clearing has appeared
for a while
The water is familiar and beautiful,
a deep well of buried impulses;
I lie beside and take long draughts
I know the forest awaits,
but I am scared of the trees.
Can you distinguish amongst them?
Perhaps, that’s for the best.
I would be a fantastic tree,
yes I know and many say so
while others ask why I left the clearing
and why I shall again
The water tastes wonderful.
I’ve felt its power before and
made promises, taken vows
and I shall do so again – of course
I know you can’t help me keep them.
Solitude, here, is prized and cursed,
and like always, leaves me unsure.
I could give it a name,
the name corresponding to it,
but we don’t seem to do so anymore.
I may take the long way around,
come at it from all sides,
picking and prodding until
it lays tired, naked and defeated.
But realize it isn’t the same
as deliberate obscurantism,
as making language counter-productive,
for fear of well meant but ill directed labels.
Your modernity is regressing,
afraid of all it once despised,
stumbling over the morality
of things easily resolved by conscience.
Let’s all laugh once again,
without hesitance or shame,
at the dreariest of all despairs,
at the holiest of all doctrines….
and disregard the reproach
of those on whom the
importance of intention is lost.
A True Sentence 