SINAPSIS Y GALAXIA


Sus pies se detuvieron en seco cuando a su cabeza vino la esencia real del tiempo transcurrido. Le había parecido tan poco y resultaba ser en verdad un muchero. Se sentó a la sombra de un gran árbol, dobló sus piernas y llevó su frente a sus rodillas, la suave brisa de la reflexión la enburbujó. La conciencia del tiempo le había abierto una senda muy ancha de introspección y le había vaciado en la cabeza un canasto lleno de preguntas que había ella ocultado de su lógica por tantas y tantas hojas del calendario… ¿Le extrañaba aún o era ya una costumbre el sentir un agujero en el pecho? ¿Sus huellas y las de él  seguían empatando una sobre la otra por el mismo camino de arena? O acaso ¿se habían separado sin que diera cuenta de ello?  Levantó su rostro sin abrir los ojos y respiro un aire tan infinitamente púrpura que sus pulmones al exhalar se convirtieron en mariposas… mariposas que salieron en señal de libertad poco a poco por su boca. No tenía más miedo. Miró fijamente el horizonte y encendió un cigarrillo de gamuza. – ¡Qué raro!, podría jurar haber comprado melancolía pero estos sin duda eran cigarrillos sabor nostalgia, EN FIN.- el humo ascendía a su cerebro en remolinos de sinapsis simples y perfectas. Las respuestas a sus preguntas abundaban de tal manera que no tuvieron más lugar dentro de su cráneo y emigraron por el cuero cabelludo, recorrieron sus rizos pintándolos color galaxia mientras conectaban con las raíces de aquel sabio árbol que la resguardaba…
Poco a poco se llenó la corteza de brillo y luces neón, las ramas se tiñeron de arcoíris y las hojas se cristalizaban a la par de las lágrimas que recorrían sus mejillas hasta estacionarse en las comisuras de la más libre, franca y sensata sonrisa.

-Ara ararauna

Nothing but the clothes on your back and the story in your hands.
Drive darling, drive.

Nothing but the photo in your pocket and the pouring look in your eyes.
Run darling, run.

Nothing but that sparkly watch around your wrist and them memories behind.
Let go darling, let go.

Nothing but that tide in front of you, and that morning dawning in your heart. Nothing.
Jump in darling, go on. 

- The Grass Parakeet

Gentle, now

My touch sought the softness of grass,

as I dragged my knees along assorted shards of papered glass

Like a madman braiding the remainder of some bristled hairs spilled on the floor. His own.              
A beautiful young girl clad in a golden party dress 

sprinkles cocaine motes over her mother's tooth brush. Humming some other country's national anthem, inside the company elevator.

Only then are birds born from asphyxia, and not for the last time.

With her tongue she traces her misgivings. In a vertical manner.                              Darkening the red on the suspended wall that once was made of brick, and still is, as does stained cloth with acidic sweat. Keeps only smeared socks and trousers in the bottom drawer.

Underneath the pungent garments lies a displaced letter drenched up in peroxide and expensive Gerwürztraminer wine; droplets of repressed tears that will never cease to be dry.

As the sun recedes to its usual melancholic restlessness, yet another day is flushed.

Hey! It's now in Côte-des-Neiges

No, no. Now it's in the corner of my tea spoon-soap opera. It's nearly six o clock.

Half a street to the East, where the roads are paved with weathered river stones my pride swerves freely.
There's ash in the morning breeze.

Towards the left, towards a better sight. You raise one arm as we stare at each other.             To challenge the rhetoric moon case; a rotting apple.

Under the covers she folds her innocence in half and then belches sweetly, for we both lie people-less, maimed for the occasion.

Her laugh is a mimicked howl that licks her own nose from within, for she lacks two of her most precious front teeth. 

Similarly, elongated shadows are found dubiously sheltered under a heap of semi-rusted abandoned street signs.

They play me at cards while my self-consciousness sways to and fro like a repented black flag;

an entire milliliter of uneasiness captures the gist, and finally my laces tear. 

Never knowing how to address the object, subjectively, painstakingly, we both withdraw from the fight.

Outside my tent, alone now, swallowed by the forest I need to summon my own sense of protection. So I pee in a circle. And I hug a sane tree. And I bribe a sane copper.
And I fuck a sane stranger,
feeling altogether not quite sane, myself.

The trees flame up,    

                 up in alcoholic fluorescent flames of blue, and green, and yellow, and some more green after that.

God, I swear I'm not the tart my yearbook states I once was;

a ragged doll, torn by the extremities.

Buried in the backyard by the house dog.

Minuscule wild flowers begin to sprout from my swollen chest, 

For someone left the window open

And then he's there,

standing in the doorway, against that lenient threshold

He beats at the floor with tiresome glances

spilling avocado juice here and there; the drooling thickness

over the fancy carpeting and imported tiles;

those precious little fractals, flower-themed along playful vines.

Pink and squatted, like your melodrama, oh so cunningly soft around the edges.

How else would anyone attempt to even conceive the notion of a clearer weather, that is, with a lighter sense of being?

-Pretroica Multicolor