Freestyle lines while driving through Gettysburg on Memorial Day Sunday…
— Read on michaelvitaly.com/2019/05/26/freestyle-lines-while-driving-through-gettysburg-on-memorial-day-sunday/
Su estilo y imaginación,
aparecen en la conversación
de impresionantes románticos
sangrado de las guerras cuánticos,
sobreviviendo entre épocas
de diplomáticas y déspotas.
El asunto de la memoria
sobre la pista de desintegración,
se constituye a participación
de la humanidad pendiente
y la naturaleza persistente.
Con que podemos ayudar al Gran
Orden de las cosas que ya están?
Con nuestros manos tan inútiles
como líneas tan delgadas para
pintar al cielo tan inmenso. Ah?
Ojalá podemos aguantar al lío
tan opresivo y ilusorio,
a un día bailar con el viento del
invierno sin cuita, sólo saber
que ya vendrá la primavera
tan dulce. Ya vendrá el verano de dolor.
Pues bailamos sin duda que aumenta la vida.
Y pintamos con óleos prestados.
Si no en realidad, solo en la imaginación.
Pero anda, ya vaya, que haces aquí?
Bueno vayamos juntos hasta allá.
Vayamos juntos hasta allá.
Through the strains of these veins, water did flow.
Nutrient-rich from root through trunk to tip.
For generations did this Ginkgo owe
None but itself a yearning chance to rip
Through Earth’s sullen view and stand above land,
And yet selflessly did its downturned leaves
Provide a curtain-like home to the ant,
A haven where songs of the birds could weave
Wise ancient tales of unwavering tunes.
Those selfsame leaves dance and shimmer like jewels,
Fluttering freely across many moons,
Bearing witness to all systems of rules.
I rub these veins, asking with my fingers,
“When we’re all gone, what is left, that lingers?”
Caught between you and your memory
And now caught on the other side
of what once was a threshold
you slip now from seen and unseen,
in and out of focus,
here and then not.
Like the long heavy closed eyed yawn,
now here and now gone.
You, always there,
never coming or going,
standing still but separate
the both of you
not facing each other
not wanting to connect any longer.
You, old and new,
Did you one night,
with Lorca’s dying Orange Tree,
cut the shade you used to cast?
No more in life if no more with her?
Is that the end you choose for you?
To welcome interruptions
but never anyone home,
To welcome interruptions
but never anyone home?
There you stand ready and waiting,
and yet I walk through you
and through you, and through you.
both have bled
both are rusty,
one seems closed off.
One seems empty.
Both led home,
Now they stand apart like
but not quite
Leaning towards the breezy open window
Open faces do greet me cheery so.
Rose-cheeked crimson faces and blood flushed
Caressed by silken pinks and puffs of white
Like clouds on green agave
Cling embraced inside your favorite pitcher.
There’s your book of lines and my book of words
Precariously set on the corner of carelessness, nap time, and
Bathed in afternoon reaching towards dusk
Somehow begging to be sought after in a furious state of inspiration
Together forever united in time.
Something deep inside these ancient tracks keeps
us safe to hide while holding on. Feeling
too much, seeing it all. At least all you
can see, because you know you know nothing.
So something tender clings to you like your
favorite pair of jeans, knowing your thigh and
your seat so well. Remember when you knew
her well. Her body like that. So close and
so tender. You both knew each other and
the world didn’t matter.
When did the world come crashing in? When did
we let go of the sails and just give in?
I want to swim to you I want you to
see me. As you once saw me. Can that be?
Where eyes once burned so clearly for me that
now beyond them I don’t know what will be
because I can’t see a thing but this pen.
I cling to my words and my memories
And suppose I’m happy just to have been
part of your life and you a part of mine.
Something tender clings, something deep inside
that stirs sleepless nights from me and takes me
to places within myself I didn’t
know I had. I guess there’s a journey in that.
And plenty of writing to do.