E. de la Garza, 14 listopada 2014
Single words audible in the din, bear one moment into the next
In cords of slack memories privately threaded or strung or woven,
Colored by the when and the where of the light and hunger and
Aching for warm scents of belonging to the world no matter what
Eyes create in each ten pound universe shackled to this cauldron
Of roiling myths and the fleeting stench of birth, knowing what is
Believed is the only knowing, not the shouts or the calm voice or
Any words to justify the illusion of now-- and seductive eyes and
Countless paintings locked behind them-- keening for the fleshly
Morsels, livid or rotting, to join the damned in joy and hope and
Love-- an endless montage of believing that the mote we live on
Is somehow better for the fist shown to or the back turned to the
Night-- and cleaving to each other and legacy, clutching trinkets,
Grasping for war and faith and treasure to say, I am victorious.
E. de la Garza, 28 stycznia 2013
Every eddy seeps into brokenness, wearing away the seams of morning
Pulling away the wear of night. Dreaming about hordes of twisted days
Penitent for a heart enslaved by desires burning the core, past senescent
Meanderings onto fetid cushions of corruption in backseats and coffin,
Hot ichor coursing in fetishes and groaning idols, searing away eyelids,
Splintering doors and burrowing into the Mother-- greedy children, still
Unable to pull away the labels scratching the mystery of consciousness
Welted with stripes and numbers-- heedless of dawn each one marches
Out of sync from every other toward a stunted horizon of meaningless
Privilege, borne like a tired story heard by patient listeners waiting until
Fresh ears have been bled of the unknowing, their innocence forgotten
Along with their inception before the light scoured the deadness off of
Darkness. Soon trickles provoke a gasp of wakefulness and futile flailing
Against the torrent of reminders, bobbing corpses of lost opportunities.
E. de la Garza, 17 stycznia 2013
It's the walk from the door to the door
Of a beat-up purple truck, my robot
Ever ready to receive the key, my hands
My feet become tires and engine, my
Prosthetic letting me speed toward the
Adventure of routine with a prayer from
My mouth and the pang from unfurling
Memories of believing in the impossible:
Not a blind, rather a stubborn, insistent
Faith that it must be so because I believe:
Like a boy blowing out candles, eyes
Shut tight to safeguard the secret from
Smirks and cocked eyebrows, wishing
To be let in-- instead of ever looking past
Reflections dulled by my breath, hearing
Laughter and music muffled by cold glass--
Welcomed by love and warmth growing
From one heart aflame, one face illumined
By beauty; defying the murmur of seasons,
Which we bare with grace or reluctance,
Believing the tic of this fleshy clock begins
The journey. Now the robot is warm, the
Coffee kicks in, and the walk to the doors
From the truck stays memories and faith.
E. de la Garza, 3 marca 2012
Is it a week of silty measure growing out of evening sprinkled with crumbs
To gather, a round week pulsing against itself, the thrall of the changing light
Every day renewed, an earlier glow fading darkness sooner until new Monday?
Who could tell about words rupturing flesh, splintering bones near to where
They were uttered-- each one, from starting to exhale and from before then, before
The space to you began remolding, before the teased potential, before the new
World was shat again-- leaving behind cripples and madmen drawn to the well
Unknowing their thirst? What can we sift from the week's days, from the dust
Of scorched flesh whispering challenges, defying ego and misunderstanding
Inceptions of breaths left as words buried in the waking and hoping to forget?
Who forgets conveniently and remembers reluctantly from the other side when
They come with more words, these intended to soothe to clear away the fever?
Another week awaits without the truth to be made clear from whom one loves,
Dares closed eyes to turn toward the sun, to rinse days with languishing nights.
E. de la Garza, 3 marca 2012
Little did it matter because all the windows were closed-- we couldn't hear
Each other, words and heartbeats clash-- the doors were locked against the
Frying rain, the freshened air, the others. Who cared and who believed: it
Came through so as to believe-- until the din of battle drowned away traces
Of memory, but the memory of the heart-- in or out: they carry the bearing
Of equals. The world cannot be eluded-- is the sting of the tiniest unhealing
Cuts, bunched and countless-- it can be escaped or joined: surrender howls,
Mercy groans with wind-battered timbers-- ignorant of the heart beating on
New thickening scars weeping blood-- holding at bay the encroaching world.
It was the time to stand fast-- in weakness I seek the numbness of an ice cold
Manhattan and two cherries and-- and believe that death would pass me over--
Tears of supplication begging for mercy, that God would cleave-- again: what
Debris would be spread by its wake? There inside, the worms could conceive
Little more than we can dwell with them and breathe-- the trumpet to her heart.
E. de la Garza, 29 listopada 2011
Nearly two-thousand years have hollowed out a corridor from bones and ash
Heaped with discarded promises remembered too late, cemented in corruption:
When an Ides arrives under a newer ownership, fawning the sweeping change,
Propelled by the same pretense that calls a nation to fill wombs and graves with
Unsuspecting tourists seduced by a psychopomp's daedal and pretty ribbons all
Stacked in opposition to each other, clinging to a bloody chest filled with anguish,
It is then that we plead for the time when it took little more than revealing to a lover
What is behind the secreted door amidst countless regiments of doors, alone opening
To a courtyard where words ring empty in proximity to sibylline shrouds flagging
The valiant heart for the humble pilgrim who believes there exists another Holy
Dwelling somewhere along the jungly path, ensconced beyond memory's perimeter
In an unwitnessed instant of terrible creation spun from an ageless whisper echoed
By irenic fools seeking to bottle a leaf's flicker with ink or electrons, holding fast
Against the tide of dying embers singing triumph absent of war, needless of peace.
E. de la Garza, 29 listopada 2011
There is little more that I perceive beyond the green vapors that taint every thought
With an insurmountable screen of bars caging my soul, enslaved by the wicked heart
Drumming even while I sleep, the reminder echoing in my head that the truth was
Carved as a wound upon my heart, never to heal until light would salve and let the
World know that love does betray, in this shrinking prison, forcing me to feel every
Pulsing syncope of shame, of hopelessness saturated in memories and shared dreams
That no sword could penetrate the heart but for the Word whose edge is irresistible
To all, destroying and creating with the same stroke, whose power is the mystery of
Truth propelling uncountable worlds to accept surrender, naïvely hoping that death
Is the panacea for this curse of having absent from my life what comes into view, as
Without warning the vapors thin, revealing that I am one sheep to be slaughtered as
Example to those who have crossed my shadow, then heaped as fuel for the furnace
Keeping the Mystery cozy in the hearts of the unbroken, convincing them that Life
Eternal is their reward, blinding us with complacence until the dying-living of grief.
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