This October Air

This October Air
Blind-sides me with distant breaths
Premature space-time

There is an echo of the past

There is an echo of the past
jumping off secret walls, long lost yet returning
to reverberate silently one more time.
Somehow the sound lingers,
but is unable to make noise.
Can you hear it?

the honest-to-God-truth

is better than you will ever know.
it is everything you imagined, and so much more.
the details would make you laugh, cry, laugh again, and cry one last time.
and you will never, ever know.

April Showers

Drip-drop delusion
Gathers in lonely puddles
Rain, rain go away

A man on the moon

A man on the moon

muses on me and my music

music that moves me

missing music, mystic music, mystery music

A man on the moon muses.

Because deciding whether or not to tread carefully takes too long

Why?

Because the imagined security of following a well thought-out plan frightens me more than the idea of true suffering. I take the risk of loss for the chance at love, meaning (truth?).

Yet the miniature human I once occupied never took the risk of a scrape or fall - accidents were truly, actually, purely the result of chance error. Dripping ice cream on a clean white shirt, my Achille's heel to the otherwise composed toddler I held myself up to be.

Upon reflecting on those statements, I experience an epiphany.

They say you shouldn't be too strict with your children because once they're out of your sight, they'll do exactly what they want.

They forget that there's kids like me who do this to themselves.

Me, a child, age 11, a thousand times more happy to stretch my mind into and around pages of books filled with stories of foreign worlds, times, realities, rather than reaching out to play with, to understand, children my own age - future colleagues, competitors, lovers, enemies, friends. A status of voluntary solitude determined by a simple disconnect from the other miniature humans. They, completely unfazed by their own sweat in the sun, dirt on their knees, proud bandaids upon ruddy cheeks. Me, a sedentary guru of children's literature upon a temple of shade, growing wiser, and fatter. Loneliness was never something I mourned, at least not at length.

Puberty hits.

And from this point on, the small inklings of romance the Disney corporation and other perversions of the Grimms' fairy tales, planted into my impressionable brain - thirsty to understand the exclusive touch shared between two adults that always leads to my parents changing the TV channel to the local news- begin to break through the topsoil of my naive, idealistic soul, leading me down a yellow brick road of melodramatic notes on wide-ruled paper leaving papercut scarlet letters, quasi-passionate exchanges between lips behind metal lockers (to this day, twisting locks to enter a combination excite funny feelings of anticipation inside me), and the guilt, of rug burn on my boyfriend's knees (why do the trunks of SUVs need rug, anyway?),  clouding up my day like the foggy breath lingering on the car windows.

From this point on, the transition from calculation and reason to senseless tears, overwhelming delusions, unrecommended reprioritizations, (un?)necessary sacrifices, betrayals in the name of exploration. A true Cortes.

American Blues

The blues voice
seduces me
in and out of plucked strings

you don't need to sing
when you talk like him

Strips me down with his chopped words
howls and moans
smoky accent
awwlll you know me, late-night cowboy

At the end of the day

In the morning, I love you.
Noon, I adore you.
Dusk, I hate you.
Dark, I forget you.
At the end of the day, I love, I adore, and I no longer hate.
I forget my hate, and I remember you.