- Collective Writing -

I love how you describe female characters...excellent short stories

 

It's kind of a habit, I love to explore my emotional side, which is something I ignore reguraly. I have some short stories from a mans point of view, I'll see if I can dig some up

 

Cacti fall within the proximity
of stone mandalas, where I
heard of the automatic lung
and the Galaxy, whose descendents
took flight
and tangled.​

 

stroking blue cobwebs

from a beard I found

stepping through a thick

brick, wall.

One atom detaches from my

Heart and peels through

Slick ribs,

becoming the smoke, the room just

evaporates and clicks

open a chest.



Kudzu crawls from a tattooed wrist,

tribally knocking over a mummified

Bufo,

dancing with gravity's

triangular nape

After Life

For I,

and I
​

and I ​

 

Ancient palace of modern design
Fixed glances from stark statues unwavering
What could these represent?
why can't I think here...

I wonder in this temple lonely and scared
I wander about, the darkness impairs
my vision, that is, until I see you
with glorious wings, of black-like ebon blue
brushing my face, you mean me no harm
they know not what they say, let me stay in your arms

peeking through this veil, of divine design

brushing the leafs from my eyes, I see your sad tale
nostalgic in nature, this tragedy prevails
spires of lightening; thundercap clouds
a meandering river; glossy fog shroud
did you know, in that instant
I could see through
even you.

I could see through even you.

peeking through this veil
of divine design
let's go back to that place, and leave all this behind.

from thought to existence, bring me with you
changing thought to existence, I could go with you..

 

ive never done poetry
only technical type psychobabble

 

Would you want to share some of that theN?

 

- Ghost Dance -
To this day I find myself quite skeptical regarding my own sincerity, and in fact as time moves forward I notice the insubstantial void of my networked memory falling apart. I feel fairly certain that I maintain an ability to distinguish between subconscious dream states, fantastic mental imagery and awakened, stimulated experience. The problem with what Aidan and I refer to as ghost dance is that though we both, in a sense, share an explicit memory extracted from the particular occurrence, neither of us are entirely sure that it actually happened. As absurd as this may sound I feel compelled to relate the incident, to expound the sense of awe I continue to harbor, because it has a grounding effect on my consciousness. A sobering clarification from the bottom up releases as the somber state of not knowing which is which and who is who gently untangles itself from my knotted mentality.
Before I lay down the happening itself Id like to share the only solid realization Aidan and I have accepted; the fact that the concept of free will, of being in any position where control is exerted by an isolated sense of self awareness is a total fabrication of a mind which as of yet remains ignorant to the fundamental code of existence. There are any myriad means by which one comes to this understanding but the profound nature of the rewired thought channels destination will always be the same.
Our teaching began during the summer of 1985 in the month of June. It was a warm Sunday spent at home in our old south Philadelphia neighborhood. I had just turned 22 not even 2 weeks prior and Aidan was hanging onto 23. We used to share a row home in a poverty stricken ghetto, him being from Taiwan and myself Irish. Needless to say, we stood out in that crowd.
I remember waking up unusually early that morning, sometime around 9am to find my roommate on the floor eating a bowl of fruity pebbles in front of the television, I believe he was watching Adventures of the Little Koala. He nodded to my presence as I passed into the kitchen to prepare my daily pot of tea, a vital medication to ease both our lingering stupors brought on by a powdered heroin binge. While waiting for the water to boil I prepared my glass with a base of honey and wiped the sleep clean out from my eyelashes. Aidan meanwhile dropped out to the front steps for a smoke and called back through the open door for me to join him. Gathering my matches and a Newport I followed him with my honey green tea in my right hand.
The two of us blew a bunch of smoke and an equal amount of pointless words, sitting on the steps under the Sun, watching the little black children run wild up and down the avenue pretending to shoot at each other, one of our favorite pastimes. And really wouldn't you expect it, but a jumble of unnerving loud sounds exploded to our left, just wrapped around the block corner. The initial mix of a car horn blaring with a human screaming, the screeching of automobile brakes and the following bang that reverberates down the four closest intersections, rattling windows and jump starting hearts.
Dropping my tea and chasing after my lifelong friend around the corner bar, my mind quickly catching up to it's expectations, I lost my breathe momentarily as we joined the small crowd gathering around the 8 year old black boy lying face down on the concrete. His blue t-shirt was already a mess of blood to match the hood of the minivan and his bike had been thrown several feet from his body. An elderly man playing his part in the drama by touching the child for a sensation of the life force confirmed what we already could feel, that he was on his way to a different place. The old man held him in his arms amidst the shouting of the driver and the wailing of a few women while the rest of us stood silently, observing the unfolding motions of time. Sounds of police sirens began in a short moment and steadily grew in intensity and I will never forget what the trance felt like as the boy rolled his eyes weakly and settled his gaze in harmony with my own. I knew in that very moment that he was about to leave, there is a certain vibration a person radiates in the moment of separation. But the boy appeared almost to be smiling, at least his eyes reflected it, and I somehow knew in that moment that much wisdom was manifesting itself openly but for whatever reason, I was the only one touching it. It was like only he and I existed right then, the elderly man, the driver, the crowd, my roommate, none of them were even there to us. A connection was being made and the awareness of the other people faded into the background and became as insignificant as the homes and shops, the drug store and the bar.
His eyes glazed over twice and went back into resting and slowly the life of the setting danced playfully back into animation. At first I felt utterly alone, isolated and very much dazed and in a way that I've never felt before. But I had just received a blessing and as I watched the energy coming from the surrounding beings wrap my consciousness up along with it, a strange air blew into our minds. Almost as if a set of hands fell upon our collective shoulders, and I realized that this all had to happen, that it was perfect, that it was controlled. Right about then my breathing resumed its normal rhythm and a perpetual comprehension of déjà vu kept playing itself out on repeat.

 

ghost dance was amazing...I got chills...

 

It will bring us good luck.
It turns on the heart.
In the morning when we play
It will bring us good luck.

 

deploy the oil slick?
yeah . . flip that shit.
this isn't automatic or stick- (sic)
fender amps spring
through three hundred and eleven m p/h
transatlantic corridors zooming past
bufoonified batmen w/sunglasses on our beaver tail
now trailing spider web enhanced emissions
is our Love, not our mission.
It seems as though we'll have to partition
ourselves sixteen thousand times
each with individual wings
sprouting eyes
alive
making a migration to the ball of your left foot
during flight,
tonight all the bats unite . . and this is just the beginning.
You poked your head through at a weird time
like Dracula 'cept necks aren't where we poke calcium synthesized bone holes​

 

This thread makes me happy

 

Esposa why dont you share some of your writing here too?
Even if it is in Spanish, lots of people speak it here

 

meandering where I stand,

I
begin to uncurl

Looking into your eyes
my dome just splits in half
spilling all those silly thoughts my
faces fractally multiply again and again
I see you smile
through bent dimensions

Water falls and there you are in the center
of Jaguar pentagramism.
Every star gives life a chance. We're here to scream
and believe that this, is not a dream.
This dream I've dreamt of dreams I see you
tasting all the sounds, Awake
and out of bounds-
The beasts purrrr in your phosphorescent presence. ​

​

 

My Spanish things I can share. I gave up attempting to be a good writer in English and classified it all as mental waste

I'll look up some things.

Oh and I dont know who are these lots of people, but ok

 

I love reading spanish poetry, especially out loud, even if I can barely understand it.
I have quite a few of pablo neruda's books...love them dearly.

 

I remember the exact moment when I wrote this story. I was in Santo Domingo laying in bed unable to sleep and just picked up the notebook without knowing what I was writing about. I kinda never know. Everything starts with one sentence that pops into my head that ends up becoming a story. I always write in the first person, not really always, but most of the time, because really Im writing about how I experience the world and my interactions with others, though everything is always "fictional". After I wrote this, I concluded this story is about me and my brother.

La Receta

Sus ojos hambrientos me ensordecían con su silencio. Me gritaban que les diera algo, por favor. No era la primera vez. Con el tiempo había aprendido a no escuchar esos gritos, a tratar de ignorar esa mirada, pero era una lección olvidadiza que tenia que repasar y repasar para nunca aprender
Yo nunca me moleste en aprender cosas que no quería, sin importar cuanto me ayudarían en la vida. Pensaba que tenia una ventaja sobre quienes me enseñaban… sabia que sus doctrinas no me interesaban y así como surgieron estas, yo daba origen a las mías.
Olvidaba sus lecciones, pero no olvidaba sus palabras para eliminar mi apatía.
"Tu eres muy inteligente"
"Lo se" me decía a mi misma mientras mi boca dibujaba una sonrisa tímida que era la reacción esperada.
"Pon de tu parte, las matemáticas son parte de todo en la vida"
"Es que no… yo odio seguir reglas, que todo este predeterminado y que no importa si yo sumo dos mas dos o si los suma Sarah, va a ser cuatro, siempre va a ser cuatro. Eso no es para mi"
Veía como su cara se opacaba por la decepción, no era mi intención. Yo solo quería dormir hasta que fuera hora de algo más interesante.
Fueron muchas las reglas, pasos y excepciones que bloquee en esos años. Me sentía bien así, no es que estaba totalmente desconectada de los ejercicios… los conocía en la superficie y no sentía ninguna necesidad en profundizar. A veces es mejor quedarse fuera del agua.
Sus ojos me recordaron esos años, todo lo que deseche por apartarme. Eran verdes sus ojos y sentía como se clavaban en el puente de mi nariz. Destruyéndola. No decía nada, pero años de convivencia me hacían saber lo que quería. Comida.
Dos mas dos es igual a cuatro.
Personas mayores que se creían más sabias, y probablemente lo eran, me habían advertido sobre las consecuencias de satisfacer su hambre. Toda razón en mí, acompañada de la memoria me repetía lo que vendría después de que el plato estuviera frente al animal. Sabía lo que tenia que hacer, también sabia que no lo haría porque sus ojos gritaban mas alto que mi conciencia, De todas formas luchaba contra ellos, esperando que se cansaran y se cerraran y quizás así caería dormido. Yo me escaparía a hurtadillas y no miraría hacia atrás para una última despedida.
Sabía también que esto no pasaría. Me había rendido desde que sus ojos se fijaron en mí y el debate no era más que una prolongación del proceso.
Quize ser otra porque quizás si no fuera Teresa seria capaz de devolverle una mirada ardiente y decirle las palabras de siempre. Ese discurso polvoriento que guardo en mi bolsillo izquierdo y siento como me quema el pantalón cada vez que sus ojos me miraban y se olvidaban del tiempo. No lo hice porque no era nadie más que Teresa.
Me levante de la silla y me aleje un poco de el; quizás el pensó que por primera vez yo había ganado, que finalmente aprendí. Yo sabia que no y mientras daba mis pasos y cree distancia, su poder sobre mi se intensifico.
En la cocina me encontré con el plato, esperaba por mí dentro del horno, siempre listo, siempre caliente. Lave mi cara en el fregadero antes de tomarlo y llevarlo a la mesa. La entrega de su comida, siempre me hacia sudar.
El me esperaba inmóvil, sus ojos aun fijos sobre el mismo punto… el puente de mi nariz que se quebraba ante el dolor. Se salivaba la boca con ansias, saboreando con anticipación la obtención de su manjar, Yo tenía ganas de darme la espalda a mi misma y mirar hacia otro lado. Me repugnaba mi propia exterminación.
Me senté frente a el, al igual que antes. Mantuve mi serenidad. Con la repetición las cosas no te asustan tanto, no cuando saber lo que viene.
“La practica hace el maestro”
Hubiera preferido mantener mi ignorancia inocente y sentir que me enfrentaba a una situación nueva. La inexperiencia seria una mejor sensación que la de ahora: experimentadamente atrapada en un círculo.
Desmenucé los alimentos con mis dedos hasta convertirlos en una pasta asquerosa. Tome un puñado con mi mano izquierda y se lo di. Sentía su lengua moverse entre los residuos tratando de absorberlos todos a la misma vez. Aun miraba el puente de mi nariz, totalmente destruido y me pedía más, como si en vez de darle le hubiera quitado.
Serví otro puñado y la pasta ahora se quedaba pegada a mi mano por su saliva. Saboreaba mi mano más que los mismos alimentos y cada vez que se acababan, su hambre aumentaba.
Veía el plato cada vez mas limpio y volví a la cocina a buscar su reemplazo. El plato siempre en el horno esperando. Rápidamente regrese a la silla. Trate de administrar mejor la pasta dándole puñados mas pequeños, pero no era cualquier bestia y se dio cuenta en el primer intento. Me lo hizo saber comiéndose uno de mis dedos.
Me mantenía inmutable. Tratando de formar palabras que eran absorbidas por el ruido de su atragantamiento. El volumen de mi voz siempre se extinguía cuando tenía que hablarle, muchas veces si le dije “Ya es suficiente ¡No más!” El no me escucho, nunca. Otras en las que logre hablar un par de decibeles más altos me contesto con su mirada burlona. Valió la pena, por siete segundos el dolor en mi nariz desapareció.
Regrese a la cocina y en el camino, al igual que siempre pensé que esta vez seria la ultima que lo alimentaría, de ahora en adelante cerrare los ojos al cruzar frente a el y así no escuchare su hambre.
El pánico se apodero de mi cuando en la cocina el plato no me esperaba, cuando vi que en el horno no había nada. Temía regresar, no quería hacerlo, busque con desesperación y no encontré nada. Llore porque no sabia que más hacer, porque sabía que estaba en una línea, en el punto A y para llegar a C tenía que pasar por B.
Regrese con el plato vació en mis manos temblorosas. Vi como me esperaba con una sonrisa, fue la primera vez que lo vi sonreír. “Debía de estar satisfecho” y por primera vez estaba en lo correcto. Sus mandíbulas no emitían sonido alguno, sus ojos ahora miraban mis pies acercarse y solo sonreía, cada vez mas. Yo sonreí también, pensé que todos se habían equivocado, que no siempre dos mas dos es cuatro. Me senté con una ligereza que no sentía en mucho tiempo. No paso un segundo cuando el decidió devorarme, empezó por el resto de mis dedos.

 

My favorite thing to do when I was 7 was read "20 poemas de amor y una cancion desesperada" out loud standing in my bed

My mom always reminds me of that. I still love reading to people, at least in Spanish.

 

Un Paso Mas



Entradas sin puertas tan dificiles de abrir.
El viento se detuvo hace un rato, dejo de correr junto con el tiempo. Breves acercamientos impersonales, invitaciones sin costo alguno.
El nomada que no se detiene, recolectando aventuras, creando situaciones. En espera del proximo, siempre un proximo, siempre en espera.
Destinos imaginarios en cien metros cuadrados.
Sonidos lejanos que confirman la no existencia del silencio externo.
El contacto visual y eterno con el techo.
Rodeado de agrupaciones irregulares de seres inquietos.
Cansado ya, de intentar, de preguntar.
El sigue andando por su propio sendero,
Temiendo.
Los dias se le repiten, una continuacion del primero.
Ha perdido control, ahora es parte del juego.
Sin ganas de participar, tira los dados, cualquier numero...
el mismo resultado.
Nadie a quien vencer, nadie contra quien perder.
Se perpetua el ritmo inmutable, se hace insoportable.
Sus oidos lo han dejado de percibir, su ser ha dejado de sentir.
Los colores se entremezclan, no existe distincion alguna.
Es uno, son todos.
Los pasos nuevos por un mismo trayecto se sienten viejos.
No existe diferencia entre el precesor y su continuacion, tan solo repeticion.
El viento regresa y con el exploraciones nuevas.
Hoy logro cruzar, aquellas entradas sin puertas.
No se le ha vuelto a ver, pero hay quienes lo recuerdan.

 

Untitled

Behind the noise, there seems to be,
reflections of life, surrounding me.
As clear as a crystal, yet nothing at all,
what was once everything, was only waiting to fall.
Up again, and now in it's place,
a brand new life, a brand new face.
a brand new earth, a brand new pace,
Endless horizons, and up above, a brand new space.
Just listen, just look, you too will find,
that nothing real, can ever be left behind.
A giant tree, a bird that sings,
a gentle melody, oh, how beauty can sting.
Passing by, above and high,
a hawk that sores, fading into distance, with the sky.
An endless world around us, alive and ready,
for that moment, we allow all to be steady.

Untitled

Lost together, gone without a trace,
Seeing only a vivid outline, of your face,
night in darkness, and nothing out of place,
two connecting, witnessing the moment race.
whispering candle light, the room is dim,
into the heat, as we go for a swim.
Antics so gentle, all encompassing love,
sheets soft and white, comparable to a dove.
without question, without delay,
we make this happen, this game we play.
tomorrow will come, and soon we find,
a block in the way, that same dividing line.
Another day, will bring another game,
what we think different, ends up exactly the same.