Particular Moments

More Stars than There are

Tag: time

Not Yet Ready for March

Crowded places filled with gazes of much un-needed Inquiry:
Curious, tense, lustful, and envious—mostly afraid—
Vexing to the extremities of bone.

Can’t a Brother eat alone
Without getting smothered by cloudy and judging glances?

damn unwholesome souls
lurking rampant on this Earth

so disturb me;
perpetually motivated from outwards, of which’s approval they seek;
must we ceaselessly suck like maggots
and compete with one another in nothing
but creature obsessions? 

Escaping the suffocating boxes of Men (and Women too),
Rows of densely packed Crackles sing like
Stereotypical Hispanic Aunties,
Fast and incessantly energetic—
Sitting on the power lines, they look like
Lines of blotched ink, so morbidly jet black,
That a weak mind may just mistake them
For a bad, bad omen—

and can we stop reducing our fellow creatures
into metaphors of our own mere understandings? 

You see, it might just be a rest stop
Along the journey of their mass, seasonal migrations—
Amongst themselves, a make-shift conference is undergoing.

A slow walk toward less crowded blocks,
Outdated Post Offices and Abandoned Factories,
Peeling Paints; Corroded Metal Beams—
Ironically, at such sights, the soured Heart sits more at ease;
Maybe they remind Us of our lost
But once True Essence,

Now empty shells, waiting to be swallowed up
Whole, down the fat, fat belly of the Real Estates,
and gentrified into “Creative Work Spaces.”

Looking into the dark corners of these obsolete Sentinels,
A pair of dimly gleaming green eyes peer back
in Innocent Caution; a Young Black Feline.

“Hey there, Friend.” You say.

For it is a rare encounter, after all,
On this humid Dusk quickly morphing into total Night Fall,
It is only you and the cat
Keeping Sigil at the Graves, six feet under which
Lay the molding corpses of the Earnest and Industrious.

Eventually, this on-foot excursion ended,
Leaving you atop an empty garage, possibly
Another tasteless fruit of some Real Estate Empire—
The view falls far short of what you anticipated:
Foggy flatlands scattered with boxes containing men and women
who mostly busy themselves glancing at each other.

A breeze blows, but does not freshen your face.

Oh February of 2018,
You stubborn Animal,
Must you so soon leave us empty handed?
I dreamt of more adventures in your bleakness.

Advent

Of something
Fresh and rare—

Eager like the
Playful
Spring Breeze,

Blowing
Your loose
Lettuce

up,
Up,

and       awaaayy—

An enigmatic
Encounter,

So New
and
Ancient

Once again.

Sonnet of Lasting Sparks

Let us love again,
And relive each other
This time,
As one matchstick
Gradually kindles another—

Such as yours—

For two simultaneous
Flames burning
Too close as one,

And too often,
Procures a radiance
Too headstrong
To perpetuate
And to prolong—

Why not let us ignite
Much of our
Unconsumed Love,
Starting only from
One end,
From one torch
At a time, and
Delivering each one
To the next, and
Unto the other—

Only sharing Fires
When the darkness
Gets too strong.

Hold our affection
In Savored rations,
And by embracing
The in-between
Unknowns,
We cultivate slowly
A unbreakable bond

Then,
Then when our flames
Finally ebb
To the Ashes,
Crisp, fine,
And well done,

Buried
Underneath
Will be

A story of Love

That stood
Life long
Against the cruel
Hands
Of Time.

 

Progressively Lit

Lit_one Lit_two Lit_three

Slightly misaligned, but nonetheless an opportune catch.

Safe Distance Greeting

You know of a person—a friend of a friend.

In fact, you are on friendly terms with a particular family: a household of two, husband and wife, each of whom you share a friendship with; the two friendships are separate but equal.

You are not sure which one of the two you are closer to, but that is not the point; you have not socialized with these early-thirty lovebirds for almost 3 years; by now they’d be mid-thirty birds of the kind unknown to you.

You like to imagine (and hope) that their once apparent affection for one another has not waned.

It is not a long brewing grudge that bore itself out of conflicts, instead, it just is. “What happened? Life happened.” That’s one way of explaining it, in what “they” say (do people really say that?).

A few weeks ago, in a public space that hosts extensive foot traffic, you recognized the back of the husband a few feet ahead of your steps on the sidewalk.

His particular build: broad shoulders on a 5’10, stocky torso; the larger size of his head; the black, dull shimmer of his mid-length hair. It was him with his unmistakeable gait—clumsy, but relaxed, yet heavy.

Right there and then, you abruptly tuned down your pace; it’s been too long and you were too tired to go through the typical jabber of the catching-up talk. You have come to realize that people are better off catching up while engaged in less talkative activities, or at least you have learned that you are better off that way, personally. So you made no plans to catch up, physically nor personally.

It’s like the phone call that progressively gets more intolerable to make; so you eventually wind up not making it at all.

But this was different—you knew sure as hell that your presence couldn’t make a difference in their lives. You are not the saint whose words are divine. And they certainly do not require help from you in any shape, way, or form.

Then again, who knows, you could have been the tiny cog in the great clock work of the grand scheme of things that made all the difference to them. You decide to not think about that.

There was something new and peculiar about the picture: aside him, holding onto his left hand, was a little person. She waddled with a funny sway, taking two extra steps for every step the giant next to her took.

She wore the a magenta raincoat that sharply contrasted his dark navy, more form fitting sweater. Maybe it’s the attire, or it could simply be the power of innocence and youth—shining pure and exuberant juxtaposed to anything.

Three years and they were already a family of three: with a new person you had never seen before. It’s shocking because it felt as if you fast-forwarded, past the parts where she was pregnant and her daughter was born and how she went from being bald, crawling on all fours to standing upright, almost half a whole person.

You followed them a short distance, keeping just enough of a gap so you could blend in with the other pedestrians.

Something made the little one turn her head. She looked back and she landed her eyes on you.

You smile and wave, subtly mischievous so she’d find it humorous—so she could trust this stranger she had never met once in her life.

Her face giggled without making a sound. She turned back around; her hair shone just like her dad’s, but it was smooth, silky, and long—must have come from the mother.

Out of curiosity, as they ambled on, she would turn around to look again and again, and each time you made a different face to entertain her.

You wanted her to trust you, to portray yourself as an adult who wasn’t so full of intent and lies and sharp corners.

After a short while, the Dad began to notice the difference in his Daughter’s behavior. She turned all the while holding on to his hand, and every time stopping briefly then managing to catch up again by clinching harder onto his big, powerful hand. To her, it was a lever of security.

“What are you looking at?” The father asked, look down on her, but not back at you.

Before she had time to point and explain, you quickly turned to your back, and proceeded in the opposite direction.

You hastened your steps, walking in between and in front of every other person you passed on the street, so the Dad would give up on identifying the back figure of the stranger who was quickly melting into the background.

You escaped without having to confront him; you felt strange, isolated, but all the more relieved.

This was your catch-up greeting, a silent and half facetious hello to the little one.