From a Distance

This isn’t the time to look at him

Outstretched arms, more limp than taut,
absorb the overwhelming applause
of strangers

Sweat beads glisten
under the new lights;
you knew they would

It is easy to find him;
he is looking at you;
that’s the trick

Hold steady now;
It’s almost over;
Does it feel good?

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Before It Ceases to Matter

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.

The Transition

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.

If I May Say So…

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.