#haikkun

God…I hope all my obituary ever says is,

they say all rivers lead to the sea -

I've had time enough to crawl every single one and I can say with all confidence this is true,

warm rivers and cold rivers and slow movers and fast talkers and this one's too quick and narrow - this one says troubling things when she sleeps

I've crawled-by tongue and tasted every last one of your filthy cities, drank up your farm run-off it made me strong and sometimes when the night's just right I can glow in the dark,

iridescence - I'm just a trick of the moon but no one's perfect I guess

one thing is I learned to take it slow, to chew the earth and to know what it means to give thanks, if I had palms they would be yours but mostly I'm just all shell these days -

I don't regret my lust for the saltwater

you'd probably jump there first - five-hundred-seven years on this earth of watching every last river spill into the sea and wondering what it would be like for me to breathe that open, aimless freedom but

I was born right next to a gentle stream, a freshwater creature but always one tempted to know how everything feels, satin to sandpaper I'm really pretty soft once you split me open -

I never even regretted letting you split me open,

fry me up and season me to taste, no

I reach out and fumble the light switch 

And it feels grippingly sour 

Lemondrop martini sucking on a copper penny

Eyes fly open desperately

Seeing only a stale musk glaring

This pungent looking room

Bathed in Applewood smoke sunshine

The footfall pounding in my eardrums 

Makes up for the paralysis within my digits 

Traffic and the road slush it kicks up rakes

A frigid brain freeze finger ’twixt my temples

I smell the outline of a treescape

Watercolor scented still life

The waft of the overcast glare

Sends me covering my nose in protest

As I choke back the deafening swallow

The static of the bedsheets crack like puffed rice 

On my tongue, curling around your name 

The first time you said it on the phone 

Cold air seeping,

sending shivers up the spine.

Stars were speaking,

I considered it a sign.

Flowers sleeping

in the winter storming line.

Spent hours seeking -

to be hindered from divine.

-

I heard weeping

when the rivers froze in time.

Snow this weekend

means I’m blistering in rhyme.

I know a secret,

the words quiver at the climb.

Promises from keeping -

is it bitter or sublime?

SALOMÉ DE L. CRANACH

 LAS PALABRAS no nos salvan.

Pero ayuda a sobrevivir y nos sobrevive: en otras bocas. Al ladrido de la Ausencia el gemido de la Sombra. Al silencio de la Sombra el aullido de la Imagen. Y así vamos cometiendo los mismos crímenes, los mismos errores sin memoria.  ¿Para qué se hizo, entonces, la Imagen, la mano en la piedra, la mano en el lienzo?  Si todos entendiéramos que el acto es intención aún invisible, si comprendiéramos que no hay final sino ciclos, si lo entendiéramos, podríamos dejar las bandejas de plata, dejar de ser enemigos e intentar ser inocentes.

 SALOMÉ DE L. CRANACH

 (S)WORDS CAN’T save us.

But they helps to survive and it survives us: in other mouths. To the bark of Absence the howl of the Shadow. To the silence of the Shadow the howl of the Image. And so forth we continue committing the same crimes, the same mistakes without memory. What, were the Image, the hand on the stone, the hand on the canvas made for, then? If everyone understood that the act is an intention still invisible, if we understood that there is no end but cycles, if we understood it, we could leave the silver trays, stop being enemies and try to be innocent.

 © Santiago Aguaded Landero / Jack Landes

Translated by autor today 2021-2-6.

A dark ale named Kemosabe from the Romanian brewery (Amon-Ra) Olovina was surprisingly good, but I don’t have an all-time fav. They are too tightly linked to their special moments to be able to separate what’s beer and what’s memory. And I don’t want to break either with a dissection...

I think you know absolutely ALL of my favorite words... and weave them together like a knife folded upon itself hundreds of times over until it’s so strong and thin it’s more dangerous than a dull blade. You write with the efficient evisceration of a razor. ❤️

They say “pain is beauty” Well I want to be The beauty in the throb The grace in the macabre The thousand tiny paper cuts That wish like cranes upon your skin I want to be the char in the chagrin Even flames get high On fake wind Cardboard fluttered so fire gutters But sparks only last so long With tinder just newspaper kindling It takes a lot of consuming For the coal to ensue Lay down your limbs dripping pitch Break the oak Send the smoke What have you got to lose? Baby, I want to be the ash in your hue I want to burn myself blue 7/11/17