Rain Dancers Wear the Colors of Bruises.

After several days of contempt the clouds finally revealed its watery secrets.

I haven’t been musing for a long time, fates have been conspiring to prevent me from taking note of how people in real life interacts. Gestures have become mere gestures, it doesn’t have motives, it doesn’t have history.  I don’t even know what a specific color  a person is wearing represents.

Today it came back in deluge. rain makers are done.

A garden suddenly appeared before me, it has all sort of flowers, vines, and spices. The aroma stings my eyes and made me think of heaven. At the center is the chico tree of my youth, it is where i curved myself when breathing becomes heavy in anticipation of a juvenile meet-up, while the rain etched it’s tattoo on my back, like maps of lost treasures, overlapping each other trying to misled those who are on a long and short hunt.

I will then start to unlock meanings, and i will create new meanings from situations, events, and conversations.  I will also share naming the world in half, one for me – a continent founded on rivers, where houses will rise on books, stories as stilts, and one for your dreaming and drifting one that has wheels on it and  a pedal attached to it so you can roam around with the world you will name, when and where ever you want. Our world will be translated over and over.

This creature

Has hairs of summer

With delicate sorrow on her eyes

And communed in songs

To those that inhabit the underground


Bursting from nowhere like a sudden river, the tortured nights before me will stop, i will not grind my teeth to sleep, and i will not be as reckless as evenings induced in rhum, brandy, and all that’s bitter sweet. I will looked at my toes, and delight on the mud under my nails – i’ve been trailing foot paths without my slippers i only want comfort negotiated between my feet and the earth. I will linger in the sensation between my fingers every time they are about to clasp your frail hands. You should know your palm has lines that measures distance in touch.

I will murmur degrees of colors

To harvest the offerings

Of the street clinched

In our fists

It will snake like roads

To where dreams are relocated

Between our eyes.


Our quarrel is abundant as our questions that we would want to ask each other.  example our coming together is a conspiracy of the universe – our vocabularies are subservient to the wishes of the stars.

These are protracted speculations,  that cannot be settled anytime we are eternally distant and dislocated.

Last week i let go of my possessions, i let go of stories hidden between book pages. i concealed fragrances, and stench in papers and neatly placed them in my collection of fictions and intellectual ranting of dead poets, disturbed intellectuals, the cynical geniuses, brillian junkies and the freaks.

Las week i let go of myself, in whim. then i center a storm in this country that i also call my own.

Tomorrow, we will call on those who were absent, those who have been pushed to forgetfulness. We will remind them that after all that our revisionism is nothing but ordinary, of orders going against the tyranny of comfort.

To end this, i will slowly fold the envelope where you hide letters, i will delete numbers, i will clear my browser history. i will forget, how one evening i saw you surrendering laughter to strangers, as you whistle by the stairs, and click and click and click.

i will write on papers and send them out slowly.

I will take flight and fall like stones from the sky when i am old.

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  1. #1 by Anna on October 14, 2011 - 3:15 am

    hi, don’t think that i’m spamming you. can we discuss opportunities for your blog? i like your style, really.

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