“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold” – W. B. Yeats
You omit before you write yourself lest you become the colossal weight of what lies under the ocean, that be, the weathered face of the mad king, the woman who had jumped off the roof, a past lover of your lover, a past-lover.
The ocean is no man’s alone and yet it floods us all with it’s seismic wreck, spinning: it batters old and new structures alike, it eats men alive and leave them language.
Life becomes alien in my hands a sniffle a startled sneeze that pursues comicality in irony, ever so foreign in every repetition.
A tree grew out of my ears, it was planted when I was small and my father had opened up my skull to look for a foul germination; something must have fell in then and something must have fell out, Words leave me dissected.
Once in a blue moon, when the wind shuffles in the night and the bat sits above a cat’s crossed tail, I’ll fall in luck I’ll fall in a beautiful tale.
[What a pity that I do not remember it; Just a crooked picture for you, only twice removed.]
Soft fingers beautiful red curls on a man a staircase leading to a souvenir shop a sunset smile that reaches the eyes (that could also be the color of the dream) a freshly-painted dark door an urgent feeling to keep this man safe soft fingers.
A spread from Ricardo Cases’ Paloma al Aire (2011)
Sadness often lurks
like a blind pigeon
in a conclave of mirrors,
disrupting a New York morning crowd
always otherwise in traffic.
A bite into my tomato soup’s
and a flash of winter
upon a clear August morning;
my soul is deep in longing.
Oh but I would never wish this fluttering sadness upon anyone.
May it be balmy
and cold like the white marble,
without a screech in the wall
or the waver of the tolling cage,
and may it be a dying fire
with tepid feet,
curling all the memories lifeless
with nothing but somber gloom.