My male baby name + my maiden name =

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theworldwelivein:

by Agustin Rafael Reyes

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theworldwelivein:

(via Landscapes on Photography Served)

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Hamlet, 1996.

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To Dwell on a Friend,

wanting to tell you that things that are happening in my life. As we grow, as

we age and I don’t know how to make the words flow. How to explain

my sadness or the remorse. Because, there are no obvious answers. No immediate explanations. Only snap

judgments and unhappiness. Even when I

bask lonely in the lime light of accomplishment, I still can’t feel any elation in my heart

unable to admit what bit of faith and fact are equivalent. The acute angles, long and broad like the side

of your cheek. Like the finely sculpted eyebrow and the thin layer of powder beneath your exterior. It all sits

heavy in my heart. Even though I know them to be judgments. Even though I recognize my own

obvious faults. I still can’t let go to find

a wind turbine swarming out in the field. The birds nesting neatly below. Finding the undisturbed patches of land. Searching out

the places undisturbed
by bitter hands

and the rages of limitless ends

and smile-less friends.

Ourselves lost,

in the connections of sonic wave to the

ever lasting cosmic chatter. And sometimes, even fathers cry. When their daughters grow up

and buy houses and get married. Have husbands and leave all their artwork in the crawl space, for the mice

love to run through the house in little tumbler balls. Plastic clear and stinking of hamster cage,

pine bedding and cat litter. And

sometimes I drink for no other reason than because I am a bad person. Which makes me wonder

when we all became so adult and so

morbid in this lived life - this other manifestation of the spirit realm- as misty bodies and cloudy

men always step in. As we pick up the pieces of our

love. Though we never felt it was fallen, only a bit scattered. And tattered.

And torn. Blown up,

high above the trees. Like a white cinema screen. A drive in movie before

they went extinct. As though there were a reason

for that conversation we had out on the grass, dog in hand. And I may or

may not remember the contents of this drink. Of this opressive depression and obvious discourse.

A browning ‘round the edges, though I found no explanation. Though I sought no substitute.

I took only and gave only and acknowledged only that psychic thread all people have. Like when

your ears burn, not from rage, but from the utter delight of being dwelled upon. A meditation on

life and all that there is looking out into an open sea. Not a writer, but a sailor instead

keeping a caption’s log. An-adventure-a-day, though we all fell asleep in the end, it’s merely a matter

of defining the verse. Of taking hold and chopping the segments of everyday into clearly focused, ponder-less,

pointless words, which create the minor brush strokes in the mural of life.

Always searching for

the divine. The sublime.

Beautiful,

to be exact and true.

I wish I could tell you more by meaning more. To unfurl my box of magazine

clippings like the caption of a schooner. To map and illustrate the twists

of fate. The utter nonsense. Bright, quiet nonsense to float away the pain on the harbor of innocence and purity.

For the puns like the finality of the death of a life half lived

and that otherwise mysterious relationship determined

before birth and played out passed the end of time and the symphony

of violins, cellos and guitars. The jacket of a bee drawn by life and thumb,

a personal reason that defines nothing, “Everything as something.” Though we feel, ultimately, alone beside the quietness

of the noise of chattering people as your ears ring with the sound of a phone that isn’t

because there is no spoon always so free to give out

a riverbed which came up empty

just like your hands when you stood before me with nothing good

to say.

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It is the stars,
The stars above us, govern our conditions;
Else one self mate and make could not beget
Such different issues.

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My diaries are letters from my former self to my future self. My poems are replies to those letters.

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A Chinaman of the T’ang dynasty- and by which definition a philosopher- dreamed he was a butterfly, and from that moment he was never quite sure that he was not a butterfly dreaming it was a Chinese philosopher.