PART I
“Let us build a friendship” She stated.
“Nothing more.
“We will never have any memory of dying.”
Then she slithered away into the wanting parking lot,
nestled within the city’s gut.
A generous light,
splinters its way through the foliage of the buildings
and blesses the multi-colored flowers,
scattered impulsively about the cracks,
amongst the broken bottles, crumbled cellophane wrappers,
and crushed aluminum cans.
However, the earth remains silent,
as I pick a flower from her sanctified lips.
I touch her and she quivers.
My hunger seems so blatant.
my stomache makes such obvious sounds,
the texture of my words, such obvious Enunciations.
When she exited the room,
closing the door behind her, I could not help but watch
with the yearning to partake of the Tree of life.
I can say. I have suffered things in the Street,
spread myself, and turned over whole lives,
changing skins, names, beliefs and license plates;
regardless, it was I, who walked this way.
No one else forced me into the ashes.
It was something I had to do;
something I needed to find.
I must face the consequences for doing such.
I can say I lost my heart, piece by piece,
giving too much to loves
residing within the dark crevices of the cities’ walls.
Or was it not enough?
Regardless,
the want to pick ‘em up and glue ‘em back together,
is not here.
I have gotten used to that harsher terrain
where no one wants to love.
By giving no answers,
One can say “I didn’t understand.”
Yet where does that get us?
A little farther from the Great Mystery?
A little farther from love?
I could say that I walked those streets,
without seeing, without feeling, without longing,
but I would be lying,
for, I am of man.
I watched every time she walked.
I could feel those firm potter’s hands
grip my neck
her fingers press light steady circular patterns
and knead themselves down my spine
and farther . . .
It’s strange, perverse
it’s as if, it is something my body craves, needs
I cannot deny it.
Ask me where I have been, and I will tell you;
however, ask me where I am going,
I could impart nothing.
I only know of the thorn’s language,
and the taste of Red Chilean wine in a flat bottom bottle.
Regardless,
the tracks I have left behind will be hard to follow.
My heels leave barely a trace imprinted in the concrete,
they will disappear with the walking of the wind;
as the day’s newspaper circulates the night air.
You will not be able to find me.
You will not know me by my tracks,
but only by the skins and tears I have shed.
Smyon-Pa 