#enjambed

I would have liked to start this novel the way Jose Martí begins “Simple Verses/Versos Sencillos”.

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  In my life, it seems as if everything is another life. Not knowing. Not understanding. Not living. I am living the life that I am making for myself now… and that comforts me a little. I find it different to digest the notion of being free in public spaces- I have tall, thick legs. Proactive… Provocative in false bravados- self-confident within. These legs take me places- Even if this life isn’t my own.

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Why does impermanence break me? This world… Nothing is ever permanent:

People, places, love, sex, touch, and even the pencil I used to write on these pages… To me, it seems as naïve to believe in the faith of poly-tune or mono-tune lexicons- An everyday language. A silence into a shout- And to those that tend to whisper late at night: Please… try again- The lie is worth it.

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             The thing about diaries is that you really cannot tell someone how you really feel- except: You actually can.

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           What seems to be true about the spaces within pages is that they tend to fill up the emptiness of paper- Much the same way that spaces in life tend to be filled and then… one writes them away in their peculiar syntax- And sometimes… It seems like you really make empty filled-up with something: A void with oozing love.

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                Pencils are a work of art: I lose them. Spend more money on new pencils. Replenishing. And repeat, again- over and over- Syntactical synchronicity does not occur unless a writing utensil is present- Intertwined with the fingers that shed ice cold tears that went dry- yet still felt for a period that you had winter within.

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                I would have liked to start this novel the way Gabriel Garcia Marquez begins “The Most Handsome Drowned Man in the World”…

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                There’s nothing so ill-advised as to attributing metonymic value to inanimate or imaginary things- Especially ordinary things like language. - It can be sordid or verdant- The task is to dissect the synecdoche into a mere nothing- except that language is everything.

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           Writing is a manifestation of that which belongs to something that is difficult to say: As hollow as one feels… writing is a catharsis. An eloquent word- phrase- all at the stroke of a pencil.

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We all have hollows within- in some ways. It’s like we need to fill in a part of ourselves that inexplicably tends to feel like is whole.

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                Only two melancholic and poignant lines remain &… The likelihood of it to ascend or transcend seems to dilute at the passing whim of every second.

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                       Faces in the crowd all around permeate perpetually…

           Paranoia in elusive metonymies that allow me to somehow transcend the darknesses engraved within and outside.

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Trompe-l'œil?

                       Raison d'être?

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                   I have a theory: concepts are myriads…. sometimes full of wonder- always innate with meaning. Awe- lovely- flowery things- I’d like to try [less than] the latter.

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                          Physique sometimes elapses sensuality- It’s like the body is a perfect flowery things- It is dead. It is alive. It is withered. And it is throbbing- Like the blood that circulates. It travels distances- I wonder what it is like to throb the same way as flowers do when they sprout from the earth?

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 Spring: It is raging. It is fluid. Re-used. Rushed- Recycled- Yet, it is subtly patient.

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           “I never belonged to that world”. Sometimes… it feels like I never belong in any world.

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              I lie in intermittent spaces I float in-and-out- and it always complicates my life. Where do I begin? Where do I go? Where do I begin? [I belong in] A world- someplace where kindness lives. I wonder.

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Hide and seek is the figurative language of joy.

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           The world of dreams… It must be an interesting one. – Revelations- Appearances- Presence- Destinies- What of the minds that make us who we are? – Terrified to Jubilant.

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Physical injuries- scars- reverberating lacerations-pain and pleasure: They are all temporary.

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Connections… even those are temporary- They matter- That is undeniable. The real question is: How much?

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I would have liked to end this novel with Wallace Steven’s “The Snowman”.

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           We all have hollow phantoms within ourselves- Like we have voids to fill- Like we are empty- Like we are in need of something to fill us in.- Like we are stretched thinly- And we are cut in some way… Like there is no hope to stay in shape- to stay in place. - That which we seek cannot be found sometimes in avoidance.

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 Life is about sustaining breath- Novels and poems sustain mine- In such a way that permanent inscription of myself lies within the confines of these pages.

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Is there a way for language to mean something? Nothing and everything?

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                 Trying out someone else’s belongings… books- clothes- personalities? They are markers of identity. Do we feel safe when we embody what others have as our own?

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                                               I sometimes feel like my lips are not mine.

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                                      The places… the streets- these crowds… This ever changing world… It has value. Si no siento valor en mi mismo pongo el valor en mi maleta- mis audifonos- la poesia- Y los pasos que camino en esta vida…

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                  I have been dealt too much moral accusation by part of loved ones… Like my life is supposed to be some fixed moral compass… Spare me? I have some free will to follow- Free will to channel- No matter what the form consists of, free will… please come to me.

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                       I like to think that somehow anomalies make sense… No matter how or what their forms consists of.

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                       Will my words somehow fill in some voids in another man? In another poem? In another book? A blueprint. [His] Full-fledged freedom to explore the empty spaces in between my lines… and those occupied as well.

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                               The same way I cross paths with a new poem is equal to a sheer amalgamation of joy.

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                               Can we convince ourselves of our worth? Of Ourselves?

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                               The wonder of libraries: They open up new worlds.

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                               Is Illness indistinguishable? As if nothing really lies ahead…? As if there were only dead-ends…? I wonder.

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           The trials and trails I leave behind me often reverberate nuisances, sadness…, and perhaps even disappointment.

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                         Recovery is always possible. It comes in many shapes, ways, and forms:

Somehow, somewhere, there will be lights dancing to your night skies. There will be hope- Shining hope. Do not forget- These faces in the crowd- This hand that writes- This body that sinks and rises- These and many more-

                                               They are all en ‘El Presente’.

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You'd think her nice And well-behaved in Her pencil skirt, if Where her pale legs Hung over the arm of The chair in the library You could not see the Scrapes and bruises.

You'd think her nice And lady-like when you Hear her heels clip The linoleum floors, Except she trips and Tries to spin on them When she has nowhere To walk a rhythm.

You'd think her nice And shy when she bites Her lip and ducks her head Apologizing under her breath Until you hear her singing From the other room Song lyrics that would Not befit a young woman.