Mente Mezcla

hmm. all the words un-worked, the ink left in my pen ( the ones before type before pixelated word replaced indigo altogether) it turns out that i can't reconcile how making them appear on a page can be so easy but pressing them into hearts and minds Hercules' lot. sometimes, as they spill from tongues and fingers it all chokes midway through thought, partially in phrases, separated in sentences or worse the block appears. the slow one, the mythical beast creeps in for some when happy, having found peace. lurking only in melancholic prayers to lost lovers and sorely missed demons for others in the moments when mist clears, their mountains visible from even the flattest crests, lovers separated by oceans and time zones reunited then they write beauty, lyric, harp songs: exalted poetry but what of the time between emotion when there is nothing to pour, the honey well dry but still sweet, dewy potential it's in those times i wonder where the soul's light switch really dwel...

cat i remember when you were a kitten! big eyes, pointy ears, round-headed tiny body caged with other species waiting to be picked by yet another species... you crawled and careened up my arm, on foreign shoulder perched like birds you would one day hunt a crackling shadow meowing behind curtain drawn windows in front of speckled apartment glass. (our bigger, safer cage.) you wore socks then, white socks we would never be able to remove. you were hungry for my lap, hungry to be stroked, just plain hungry. now they tell me you are older than i with cunning instincts given to a maturity i may never know, you shed ferociously all over my most stunning black and puke in hidden corners mocking mops, buckets, vacuums. your eyes watch me nude here wondering why i take off my fur just to put it back on ag...

Music swirls Chariots staccato-stuck in metal spokes Soul samba Foxy trot, foxy lady Skinny dipping rhythm Submerged, drowned sorrow Of Lovers since evaporated, poof Another sounds Instruments stray from turntables Unforgiving, syncopated Like droplets in still water Dance! Arms crane surfing imaginary wind tunnels Contracted convulsions surround each other Flower petals bursting from Hidden stem within The exotic circle Sabroso, fluid And just when you think: Explode! Everything, everywhere, everyone is Re-leashed.

Black dress Label scratchy, rough. I ask him: use these scissors Sharp end facing me Like kindergarten. He reaches across my fist takes them blade end first pressing dull metal edges against skin, indenting my palm, sliding shears through yielding fingers. Tactile punishment For the wrong question… He disregards the tool. Eyes grazing me, squinted stare, Placing one hand on my shoulder, (suggests the turn) spinning me 'round barely brushing hair above collar holding, Sliding his other hand down my neck, inside the black dress he tears the label swiftly, leaving no blemish. And without peering back I exit the room, stage left, as if nothing really happened.

A baseball player died today and i realized that i like people who believe stillness has soul the inanimate shaped by hand, even mechanized-->the machine immortal too in its mortal creation This picther, he talked to the baseball cushioned it with recognition, words, love in a soft leather glove And while my glass of wine has no place on the stitched lips of a baseball (or sad smile of a child's well-worn-soft-cuddle bear) I know that somehow, these "its" they know as well as we to mourn mortality