Starving

An artist dabs daily on his global canvas with pain,

a magnificent Margarita gapped by comber cadences and framed,

refrain from whispers so that portrait can flourish with fluorescent fame,

she whimpers to herself at a tenor that breeds scruple shame.

How can I speak to a wall with no lips, nor ears?

Appears the model has tight-lipped tells that need time to settle,

utter blushing pink roses on primrose cheeks to peek those pearly eyes,

surprised by remorse, don’t be, he re-adapts and dodders in another kettle,

pallid he recites ballads and facile re-enforcement that help the days lies.

How can I live not knowing what she knows?

His aches sibilantly rustle him from outer thoughts and slumber,

she’s a silent nubile image that gives no signs or volley,

amber lips and hips smooth like milk gasping among those infinite umbers,

she’s a voyeur holding her thighs tight to not ignite a folly.

How can I wait for an angel who’s out of reach?

Preach love in all its opalescent glory,

she smiles jocosely at every story,

hearing her ambiance in the heat of his starving heart,

start returning his pecks so your souls are not so far apart.

I only wish my muse can find a way to mirror my creation,

so I may have that same loving sensation.

P.S.

The blue line jaunts westward in the solemn indigo night, jittery, with a few others with bags bundled at their feet. My luggage swells onto the main lane, wrapped tightly by my legs, the other two bags, one your borrowed me, huddled into my arms, warmly. You stare at nothing, head bobbing with the movements on the tracks, jiggling left and right, hair swooping like a wave. Light’s flash in and out from the widows, pale, as if ascending into the stars. It’s late, but you came anyway, to see my off. My mind is fuddled with thoughts and notions and lingering concepts that sound radical and unreal. I happen a joke or two, just to see that smile; it will be awhile till I see it again. Will we be just friends? Oceans apart in feelings due to the vast distance gapping us as we speak? I massage your palm with my thumb, fighting off a shudder. I will wait till I return to make that decision. You lean your head exhaustingly on my shoulder, but I feel cold. It’s chilly today.

We creep through the long corridors of O’Hare, seeking that plane that will see me off. The building is huge, teetering off in all direction, ad’s and billboards offering welcoming deals, and arrows trying to guide the way. We are lost in the soundscape of a lover’s ballad that has reached its third movement, suiting its autumn, with the leaves sifting colors, discordant deep flats perpetuate grimly in the atmosphere. You carry a few bags, I can see in your eyes, you have some pang you are trying to fight off, I offer nonchalantly a quib or two, but that doesn’t help. What can you see in my eyes? I hope it is the twinkle in my soul. I hope you realize I still love you. Few words are murmured between us, not waiting to give recognition of this moment. You find the right way, guiding me with your smile, not mentioning the lingering doubts you have about yourself or us. Other strangers litter the airport, some alone, some with family, or friends, as long as you are with someone. I glance at you, that primrose face grinding to stay hidden. Your incredulous smirk and shrug speaks volumes. I lug forward, heartfelt, hurried, tired-eyed, with Chicago glittering at a last hooray.

I capture you with a camera, capture us, but it’s fleeting. The people ascend in mass towards the security check-in, countless nobodies all going to a distant place, I wonder who they are leaving behind? We are forced in abnegation, subjected to the pain cringing in our souls at the comfort we will miss. Our loved one’s raise their hand one last time, defined by the other crowds doing the same, to me, to all, all those wanderers boarding life and pursuing it for that adventure, that new, that enlightenment that comes with being far. Isn’t it strange that something that gives us such great pleasure can also yield great pain? My arms engulf you, locked, protruding warmth, and love, and care, and horror, and fear, and longing, and absolute desire. You tightly bind my waist like a mountain climber grasping a rope for dear life. I try to block it, but rivers burst onto your curly locks, supplying it with the vitality for growth, your growth. My chest soaks up the water spewing from you, quenching my heart. I am focused on nothing but your presence, that feeling of completion as you wedge into my lower-half like a jigsaw piece. A stasis folds onto us, we live in that moment, and never leave. We whisper our last words. What were they? Our lips touch like virgins. My body turns unwillingly, legs push forward, this is it, I turn once and see you, rubbing beneath those cinnamon pearls, raising a hand, I tread more, glance back, your effaced by convivial terminal, and I stutter, stone-faced, immovable, lingering there...I am still waiting for you.

She is

She is
Following the signals and signs intertwined, or
adjourned at the sinuous crowded streets, lights
bite and tend towards flux confrontation with herself,
and others who claim to be but are not, those
wolves show their fangs when you are alone, atone,
not as quick as they disappear doddering in the shadows, prodding
hands grasping at your image to distort it, that
greedy cur sapping you of the little company you have, loose
lips try to steal stars but rejection can be just as cold, fold
that hand at twilight to expel the warmth needed, when
doubting yourself or it allow time to swell over, continuation
not destruction craves to exist,
a kiss that floats heavenly in the air,
startled by the chimes rustling in the back,
imagining a soul that can bring that smile alive.

She is
That last star on a fogging night,
bright as a pearl engulfed by the heavy ocean,
a potion for enchanting days to produce ample prose,
but those purple blankets terrorize my mind,
raining my cheeks with memories and memoirs,
tighten my throat with that brisk grip so I can’t talk,
some pain functions as a creative spur,
haunting renditions of what will happen in the coming months,
shrouded by the damp gales of Chicago at her door
waiting for that familiar sound of fumbling and that beacon
like a lighthouse cutting through smog,
until that gateway is open and her eyes blare into mine
on that sullen blue night,
dressed in everything that I left,
waiting for the first words to conjure,
will I know,
who she really is.

Walkin' and Talking under the Red Sun Part 4

Piles of Earth forming over years and years and years, eroding, morphing, adapting, always changing, but always existing, never ceasing, unlike the humans and animals that may have tread on it, lived below it, thrived on it, it still stands, firm, allowing riverbeds to form and animals to flourish, majestic, only asking for peace, tranquility, that repose of solitude even if it is fleeting. We don’t see many mountains back in Chicago. Nature has been brushed aside for the development of civilization. Cities in general tend to try to mask the fact that there used to exist verdure growth, applying makeshift gardens to hide the fact. Even with Chicago being one of the pioneers of a “green city” it still neglects Mother Nature and all its glory, with such insipid noise, and blasting lights, and pollution: that lurid mustard glow peppering the sultry nights on Michigan Ave. We tend to want to forget there is life outside the city. Gazing upwards at skyscrapers instead of at wilting flowers and muck filled river beds. Anyway, I climbed one of the numerous mountains sprouted out around my village. It was only a 15 minute cab ride, trundling through “back of the yards” type settlements on my way, eyes peering through the window at the American bobbing left and right. A husband and wife live at the base, offering you to jaunt up the mountain for a small fee, providing you with a map, and some fruit for your journey. A vibrant path greets you, with a few temples and houses scattered near the entrance, people living off what the mountain provides, and then eventually you are merely emerged into the flourishing life that exists on the rocky path towards the top. Arrows guide you towards your destination as you scavenge higher, on a path at the start, until a certain point where the climbing begins. A small river curves from the top of the mountain, clear, pallid, rolling like marbles, a murmur, like a voice. Cries from birds stealthily hidden within the sprawling greens and yellows and creeping algae covering the peeks of the mountains towering around you as you walk. Doddering from rock to rock, so not to collapse into the puddles, facilely clamoring higher till you reach a small waterfall. The arrow pointed though it, my friend and I glanced at each other, then upwards at the rushing tide crashing through this small cavern leading even higher, feeling the brisk shutter as we placed our hands in it. After some contemplation we shrugged, stripped to our boxers, placing them under some shrubs till we returned, and decided to tread through the falling riverbed. Once you hit the water the cold punches your chest, I grabbed for the nearest rock and lunged into the stream, it knocked the life out of me, I struggled to breath, gripping for any support as I fought forward through the ice water, cymbals pounding my ears, slippery, chest exhaling and inhaling intensely, lifting my head through the small opening above felt like being reborn again, the air was crisp, I pulled myself out and shook off the fear that jolted through me while I was battling the water, taking in the vantage point of the amount we have conquered, the Sun baking the emerald and brown in a bronze hue. After some more climbing we reached a second waterbed, this one larger than the one we climbed through, falling elegantly into a pool, ferocious, but gentle. We scaled higher and higher up first a ladder, than pulling ourselves by bars, reaching a drawbridge, then the to the top of the second waterfall, in my boxers, shivering a bit, gazing at the falling lemonade painted mountain edges fading softly with the calming wind, bushes and trees fawning, rushing water singing, animals chirping their tenor tones, everything moving and still at the same time, sighing, wishing everyone, anyone else can see this, and be there, here, and enjoy it, cause’ it is worth a moment, for appreciation, if only for a few minutes…

It is

It is the bee sting on your arm you got maybe a year ago, lasting,
even after he left. Pollinating the ebullient ideals,
till they bloom into those primrose parachutes to save you
as you fall.
It is an iota of fluttering butterflies gaily colliding and searching
for that right place. Stirred by the mutational caw’s of cars,
rattling floor boards and window panes,
as you sleep.
It is the seagulls scampering at the coastal eve’s as the chill bites,
frozen hours huddled together. Deep cuts of darkness and
stars fluently lulling angelically overhead, lasting an eternity,
as you dream.
It is that wet sensation under your eyes as familiar sounds
spew inward. Those helpless lyrics poignantly play
those rhythms that make you shudder and startle,
as you think.
It is a thin string wrapped around your waist, in case your forget,
it tugs you gently. Warmth bursts into those veins and
recalling it causes you to smile,
as you live.
It makes you blue, but you gleam that rosy white,
despite the dips and dives. Thriving on the dualism
of it, knowing it will always be, and never will change,
it just is.

He is

He is trying to hear his heart, apart
from the rushing tides of Euripus, nubile sirens sing and clamor,
naked, innocent, attempting to veer his skiff into those jagged rocks,
needing a reminder, first mate is gone, but his yell slaps him,
tie me to the mast, my body lunges forward but my heart halts!
Their warbles are drowned by Poseidon’s stirring gales and zephyr’s
that waft of home that warms his chest and rest,
fondling his brittle ship. He can’t imagine what its’ like anymore,
those towering foundations seem so far away.

The Cyclops peers dastardly demented, dangling doubts
of subjected furies and notions and feelings,
tearing at the limbs to piece apart truths with lies,
look outside the body heart, we have been through worse!
The Red Sun burns sails while the wind raises rapidly spreading flames,
dancing memories of dramatic drapes hiding pellucid cypress kindness.
Seas sizzling, his skin chard, those foreign maidens abide to heal
those old scars, falling at his feet,
his muscles bang and lam at all sides,
currents crash at turns heading for the river Styx,
we all are guided their eventually.

No comrades hold the bridge, he steers
one arm gripping the helm, another attempting
to shield the light to see what’s forming.
His compass spins like a madman,
deep grey collect like a murder,
squalls and swans flap frantically back west,
he grins and laments, mouthing Eros and pathos of that
pendant that hangs freely at his chest.
A portrait of beauty upon beauty, nothing else,
O will Eros survive such tragedy heart, please tell me old friend!
Mumbled to lightly, but none the less something is there,
He knows it, but he isn’t sure
if time will do them any good.
he peers at the harbinger culminating overhead without question,
one last look at his beginning,
or is it their end?

Walkin' and Talkin' under the Red Sun, Part 3

I neglected to give much detail upon the place I am living and I apologize for that. I will divulge as much info as I can on my village. It is called Yuanqu, in the Shanxai providence, deep within the stomach of China. My village is wedged between towering mountains, they surround us like guardians. I can’t look in any direction without seeing one, on pellucid days I am greeted by the emerald algae and trees on its deep brown body. It’s a very majestic sight in the morning, while I jog having these giants to ogle at. The air is thin, as you come into my village your ears pop to adjust to the altitude. I’m told my village as some of the best air available in China, due to the mountains, which I can believe traveling to a city where the fumes seep into your lungs, forcing you to cough. Most of the roads lunge upwards, especially the main road off my apartment, which I jog up. My apartment is big for it just being me living here, two bedrooms, a front room, dining room, bathroom, and kitchen all to my lonesome. I usually lounge about the other bedroom, or read in the front room with the mountains peeking through my window. My school is a mere five minute walk, bustling, the number of children there is too many to count. Immediately walking there on my first day I was assaulted, stared, and gawked at by all. They love to see foreigners, I imagine cause’ they don’t get many. The building is a bit run down, traditional, but quant. The campus is large, and still expanding. They have courts set up, Ping-Pong tables, and all. My teaching consists of me merely mouthing terms and having them repeat them back at me, and if they are having trouble I gesticulate or form each letter with my lips. It’s not an incredibly difficult job, but it does take practice. At first I spoke to fast and wasn’t engaging enough with the students. The pedagogy fosters much weight to the teacher, housing countless respect, rising as I entered and greeting me before I started my lesson. I try to make my classroom friendly and keep interest alive, while joking and poking fun at myself in the process. It makes me smile to see them want to pursue the west in such a way. It’s such an ideal that they attempt to grasp, the west, and dream of that nostalgia that most living there have already forgotten. I don’t want to be the one to bust their bubble.
There is a market a block away from my apartment and it’s always bustling. All one has to do is pull a seat up and order a bowl of noodles and some meat on stick, roasted near burnt, and seasoned with chili powder and vinegar (they love vinegar by the way, eat it with everything). It’s delicious and as you eat, if you are American, you can expect others to join you, offer you beer, and chat and drink with you, ending up paying your tab usually. My friends and I end up looking for this on the weekends. Also, every day at around 7:30 all the adults come to a square near the same block as the night market and dance, which I found humorous at first. The reason being is that a group of them line up and perform a choreographed ensemble that differs from each song spewing from the loud speakers up above. The movements are so in tune sometimes it’s as though I am watching a music video, as they prance the number to the beat, turn right, then do the same, turn right, and repeat. It’s a sight to see. Other couples are entwined in one on one moves that are also practiced most of the time beforehand. Dances range from Tango to a waltz type of jingle. It’s actually not a bad way to meet others in your neighborhood, but I don’t see the south side of Chicago meeting every day at the same time to socialize with others.
I sat and had Hot Pot today. It’s when you place a large pot in the middle of the table, having your vegetables, meats, tofu, seafood siting outside, with the liquid inside boiling intensely. The liquid is a deep black, mixture of spices, chicken broth, vinegar, while there sits a small white bowl of some type of cinnamon and sharp vinegar and spices. You throw whatever you want into the pot and let it simmer and cook, placing it in your bowl to eat with enough time. I ate this with a nice couple I have been going to frequently, since they know what I want and make some dam good noodles. We eat our fill then the man, who has seen tons, being a ruffian when he was young, begins to explain a little bit of how China works. He breaks down the system they operate on into four, beer, sex, fortune, and ability. A note here, every male in China drinks. I have yet to meet a man who turns down alcohol, which is why my liver will probably rot unless I figure out a good excuse. Yes, China’s beer is light compared to American brew, by 3%, but the way they drink differs. They bring out a cup to each person, filling it to the brim, equally to about a third of the beer, they cheers, Gambai (drink all), and you chug the glass. Here is something of note in this process: China is all about respecting your elders, so when you Gambai someone who is older than you, you must lower your cup to theirs, clinking beneath them to show them respect, and you must finish your cup, or it’s disrespectful. The cups are refilled, and again, Gambai, refilled, Gambai, again, and again, and again. They don’t know the meaning of stop. They want you to need to hobble home clinging to the walls for support. The craziest thing is, no matter what happens, it’s everyone else’s job to forget everything, even if you made a complete ass of yourself, and act as though nothing happened. I have a funny story relating to this that I will tell anyone who asks when I get back. Anyway, the Man bestowing me the knowledge upon Chinese culture informed me that money is the root to everything. The Chinese have a practical, monetary approach to life in a lot of ways. Everything can be weighed, bought, and so that is what is most important to them. When I asked about his views on love, he declared money is the main goal, love is a product of it. “Life is a Dream,” he said, nodding solemnly, his bald skull wrinkled by age. This man has seen many things, I can tell from his eyes, and the way he speaks, booming, erudite, wise. I am getting second hand his musings by the way, my assistant bridging the language barrier for me. The one thing that stuck with me most, “American’s think with the mind, Chinese think with our hearts.” I realize that my mind has always been the ringleader pointing the directions my body should go, but I never acknowledge my heart. I was dumbstruck, how could I miss such a simple thing? I have a new goal now, in order to understand my body, truly know it, I need to know my heart: the main pump bursting energy so I may move and think and live and love. I must listen to my heart. I need to learn its language and allow it its say in my decisions. I will do it. I will know my heart.