The twelfth installment of TiL's 2013 Poetry Series features the work of Luis Peña and proffers an A/V treat: fotografía 505.
How Many Names Do You Have For Water?
Water is memory alive
two hydrogens and one oxygen
three distinct states on Earth
a holy trinity of solid, liquid and gas
the basis for all life on the planet
The memory in water is
coded deep as connections to
zero, the very beginning
when cloud people danced
across coral colored skies
and thunder was the drum
and the drum our hearts
and we celebrated many names for rain
these memories are
proportional to water in living flesh
and bears witness to every moment
so watch it flow by like
sinew and tendon across bone
liquid silver and turquoise intention
My memories are made of
arsenic, iron and soda pools
spring runoff and melting ice
moss rocks and golondrina trills
water balloon fights and the
way the frogs sing after a good rain
I fell into the acequia as a child
and felt the downward pull
gently swallowing panic for air
then the unsound of underwater silence
somewhere the memory of birth
and the sting of every La Llorona
threat
As an adult the memories are
full with strength and respect
the birth of our three children
the power of the ocean waves, atl
headwater prophecies, agua
playful water serpent, kha'poo
in every moment there is water
Something worth fighting for
Something worth dying for
in every moment worth fighting for
in every moment worth dying for
there is water
quadrao
+++++++++++++++++++++
what is a desert consciouness?
how does it manifest?
as a perfect square or maybe
a cross shaped monolith?
plotted out as cardinal points
+++++++++++++++++++++
or maybe some sort of plant
hard and bitter, skeptical
like yuccas combed clean of flesh
stripped and ground down
bound by saltine dreams and humility
+++++++++++++++++++++
or maybe a conciousness
like melted wax, pieces of time
that burn away slowly and
are hot to the touch, perfumed
a vehicle for intention and
superstition
+++++++++++++++++++++
a south facing wall in the winter
or a cool shadow in the summer
a goathead on the foot
dry bones in the backyard
gratitude encarnate as rainfall
+++++++++++++++++++++
empthological
You ever notices how God's will
looks suspiciously like a Man's
political agenda
and how, when you unravel all the
doublespeak and
false ideology, you find a scared
person
who fears change too
And have you ever hit a stoplight,
around Christmas
and come face to face with a homeless
soul
and for one second you exchange places
and all of a sudden, that's you holding
a sign too
in the freezing cold
Have you ever watched them drop bombs
on the evening news, on villages in far
away places
whose names you cannot pronounce, and
see pain
on the faces of people whose name you
cannot pronounce
and thought, that's me they're bombing
Or have you ever attended a burial
only to find yourself looking up
from the bottom of the hole
skywise, to see yourself cry
for the loss of such a great friend
I've often sat listening to music that
pokes at the sore spots and wails
as it speaks to heartache and loss
and have realized, hey man...
that's me they're singing about
empathy
necessary for growth
but damn
it hurts like hell
creation story
/// i have been created
/// in divine light
/// and in the anger
/// of creation reverse
.// obsidian winged
.// butterflies that
.// dwell in colony
.// wind drifted
../ i have been created
../ in the mischief
../ rabbit tricksters
../ on smoking altars
... golondrina whistles
... swallowing silence
... like watery sound of
... turquoise and silver
../ i have been created
../ in liquid feather
../ reptilian parietal eye
../ a social construct
.// other siders
.// lucid dreamers
.// whispers of ghost
.// dancers and fiber optic
/// i have been created
/// in the space between
/// irrational numbers
/// and rational love
Perfect White Torpedo
He drinks from the chipped porcelain
coffee cup, which reminds him that life can be cold & bitter at
times. Back in the living room he rolls another cigarette, gazing at
the snapshots and fractures. Fat children with exaggerated smiles and
stone faced testaments to military service line the walls one square
at a time. His fingers fumble back to pack the tobacco in the small
white oja, to roll a perfect white torpedo. Top brand of course,
zigzags are for the marijuanos.
The match strikes
His stare stretches on for 100 miles
after the first drag, gazing into purgatory. The silence is witness
to the gathering of angels who sit next to his fogon, patiently
waiting to impart wisdom while the clock ticks on in impatience. In
his head he hears radios and interference, bomb whistles and
explosions, screaming and directives. The smoke twists about his face
in an effort to refocus his attention, in the way that children with
important ideas sometimes do.
Home has never been the same, even
though that statue of the Guadalupana has not moved from its place in
the trastero. She stands there, arms outstretched among the
collection of crosses and tea cups. Her heartbeat echoes off the
canyon walls that surround this little casita, because she still
loves him. But instead, he chops wood to pass the time and avoids the
dogfights at the bar. It doesn't matter much, the faces change but
the roles remain the same. Just ask the three legged dog.
There are no jobs and he won't accept
handouts. Fortunately for him that beans, potatoes and chile never
get boring
Beans, chile and potatoes
Beans and potatoes
Chile and beans
Potatoes and beans
Chile and potatoes
Potatoes, chile and beans
Just enough calories to keep the Jeep
on the road. In the night, he pleads with his sergeant to join
the rest of his ghost platoon. And the son of a bitch kids call him
crazy and tease him when he's not looking. So he conjures the big
yellow schoolbus to take them away and it passes swiftly against the
kitchen window. The brakes and the grinding gears give him a sense of
order and the way the sounds fade off into the distance is
predictable. Not it same way the ocean does, or the way he can still
speak Korean through cracked lips.
His daughters don't understand, but
every year they cook him a big turkey on Veteran's Day. And in that
moment, it's all trumpets and streamers and sparklers. His shoes
shine and you can bounce a quarter off his bed. He laughs and leads
his grandson by a calloused finger and tells him,"El diablo sabe
más por viejo que por diablo." The little boy smiles back in
confusion.
Untitled
He problem solves
Inside equalibrium
Gifiting elders with
Fresh blanquillos
Super secret
Liquid purple
Pinavete
Split & stacked
Hermano Raton
Sings softly to your
Coffee pots and
Spring runoff
And right about now.
Cloud people are
Irritated by cable TV
And the pop of cheap shoes
On linoleum floors
Somewhere. Dream deep.
Deep as mica mines
Deep as camotes
Somewhere. Clan animals
are chasing car tires
And here you are
With me, watching
Thoughts go by like
Stock tickers
Even the second hand wastes our time...
***
When
he's not digging through 1's and 0's, Luis Peña has
been known to kick it with poets and in gardens. He hopes to someday
become a seed saver and a hollow bone for Creator. His thoughts tend
to drift towards cloud formations, subwoofers and the current
state of water in the Nórte. You can find him in Santa Clara Pueblo,
NM or at luispena505@yahoo.com
0 comments:
Post a Comment