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Thursday, October 20, 2011

Cuba 1987: Complex Realizations From Simple Actions

I smell the dance of the riverbank
within the darkness of the night.
I smell cups of burning coffee 
and bowls of scorching rice.
The night fills with sheer stupidity 
of the enjoyment of the danger of light.

I smell my Soul airing 

the hidden recesses of my heart.
I smell my heart accepting 
the warm embrace of my desire 
to feel my humanity's touch.

I abandon thoughts for complete selfish passion 

the transferring of my emotions
to fit into the small of his neck 
and curve of his spine.

My sensations pour into his sentiments 

blending instantly into pure harmony.
I lose awareness 
of the people 
around us 
who stream by 
very close
whispering in hot breaths 
sweet nothings 
under the segmented moon.

We stand against the bus station, 

I am pressing his back against the wall.
He urges me to embrace him, 
I think about if I will, 
he rolls me onto my back
pinning me in pleasure, 
I can feel the cold of the tangible under my palms.

I trace the bullet holes in concrete, 

the craters my fingertips fall into,
but I do not permit 
my revolutionary past
to creep into my seditious present.
I take anything he is willing to give me, 
and I give what I am willing to give back.
We are caught in the glare 
of impolitic moonlight 
entranced under love’s ignorance.

I open my eyes to be aware 
and refresh 
all my senses and sensibilities that I abandoned to feel
and feed my undernourished heart.

On this island of hope, 

I see the watchmen of the night 
strip away any of my naked sentiment,
feelings I feel for any unguarded feelings -
the watchmen observe me from dark doorways,
so they can report if I embrace beliefs other than theirs.

I open my wide eyes wider, 

and hear the dawn sweep the church steps,
time lights up the undefined sexuality of confrontation within.

My feet unearth 

plunging me towards the end 
of my affair with innocence.
Shadows obscure the moon, 
and I know I will never see him again.
Rolling him onto his back I kiss him 
one last time 
to see the point I have reached.

The woman I was at sunset 

has traveled a distance unrecognizable,
and now at sunrise she is nowhere to be seen, 
I have mentally vacated.

I confront the new strangeness 

of my now halved, 
and therefore shriveled, 
silhouette.
I watch my profile project 
across the bus stop wall,
then mutilate a dance 
as I walk away.

I see my shadow disengage, 

leave me, 
part from me my half smile and
fill the back of his neck, 
still damp from the last kiss 
of my dear departing spirit.

The moonlight twinkle in my eyes, 

he loves so much,
stays with him pressed into the wall.
I leave him. 
I leave understanding him, and knowing myself.
I leave him understanding he is not the one, 
I am the one –

I realize how much I hunger to receive and give,

only to ultimately be hungry again, 
since only I can fill full my inner needs.
The journey of one love for one other 
and one love for one's self -
I have many complex realizations 
from actions I once thought were simple.

~~ Other People's Fingerprints ~~

Sometime after 1902, Dulce Maria Loynaz wrote; 
“A minute passed, a century passed.
The moon bounced off the balcony gable 
with a sound of breaking glass, 
to land in pieces …
Splinters of moon splattered her face, 
and she could still feel the unfamiliar cold. 
She knelt on the path, 
gathered up the broken moon from the grass, 
and wrapped it in her lace shawl.
For a while she held it in her hands, 
mistress for a few seconds of the secret of Night.
Then she dug a deep hole in the place 
where the earth was warmest …
And so, she buried the moon in the garden. 
Above it she planted an almond-tree branch 
and she went away with her hands damp
and muddy with earth and with moon.”