.echoes.

a million words flutter about my head like confused butterflies in a summery haze

5.21.2007

yo veo una tormenta en la manga de una camisa verde

the sky has begun to fall.
raindrops feed the space beneath
my weight
as
if
the rocks have been clawing violently at their own throats;
dieing slowly, suffering from thirst.
an inch of standing water molds
around my bare feet
motionless at the beginnig of a thousandmilelong
corridor,
a dingy hallway in the forefront of anther day passing
as if it is going to bring me anywhere,
as
if
i were anywhere to begin with.
the air here is stale,
carrying hints of mildew and
damp cigarettes,
but my pores still need to breathe
(they flare open and suck it in-
poison or not.

i don't know who you are;
or what you're doing
or where you're going
staring with my childwide eyes
slackjawed at the sight and encounter
of an overlyfriendlystranger
but i can't move.
all the sight in these eyes is vacant
and all the space behind
has been abandoned;
a dusty row of empty houses,
reposessed by the government,
rotting in their foundations
along with their surroudings.
eventually, they will all be destroyed
heedless of the memories trapped
alone inside about to breathe (with hoarse, lost whispers)
their last reminder
of some lonely and forgotten friend.
with onefellswoop, they are crushed beneath
heaps
of drywall, asbestos, insulation, and
broken glass.

keep speaking.


i
said,
keep

speaking;
while the rock are drying back up, they usually
lack the energy
to compare scars
even if they really did exist in the first
place.
somehow,
i feel for them;
my skin is flaking and my throat is
sandraw
and
i have clawed at my outsides long enough
to have
lost my fingernails.
the makeup looks just ohsoprettyso
you
don't
seem
to
notice.

all the flowers have died and we
haven't seen the sunshine
in days
due to
so
much
rain.
these clouds are more violent than i
remember; now wrapping onebyone
their fingers around my
emaciated neck,
constricting oxygenflow (i thought)
should have been filling
pockets in my lungs.
the air pressure sighs and grey
and these suffocating sounds
sing me slowly to sleep for another day.

1 Comments:

  • At May 22, 2007 5:51 PM, Blogger greg said…

    your words leave me without words, as usual...and the Neruda poem on your other blog is one of my favorites.

     

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