Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Do You Remember Passion?

“Do You Remember Passion?”

by alex rivas

Pushing open the door of the cafĂ© on Gray Street, I really don’t know why I’ve come here; well I mean, I do know why but it’s easier to contemplate the rafters. They’re familiar, you know, but not too much - I can throw my head back in that corner chair in the far end of the room and get lost in the veins, the bumps and bruises of the wood.

I ordered another King Crimson tea this time, but honestly I don’t know if I can finish it – not because it tastes funny or anything, it’s just harder to drink it all without someone else borrowing the cup once in a while. So I’ll just leave it there I guess.

Took a look around, it makes me kinda sad – seems they’ve closed off our – I mean, the patio. I think it’s probably because the bench back there finally gave out, I guess Formica really isn’t as unbreakable as some people think – really you shouldn’t take that sort of thing for granted. And past that patio, I don’t even need to look outside to see, to remember everything that’s there – things that don’t change, or go away, that are truly concrete. There everything remains, stays still while the world panics through it.

On the wall there, “Do You Remember Passion?” – the favourite graffiti of the kids who haunt those backalleys, some other person begs the question.

do you remember,

do you remember?

I remember, that stain living right on the bricks, I took one of your senior pictures there, the words that just jump out to say – well, I don’t know what right they have to ask, anyway.

It’s not something that needs prompting, the thoughts that were already in my head. I could count the cracks in the sidewalk from where I am to that wall from memory, feeling two sets of footsteps in my mind but I can only see my own two feet, placing themselves one after the other; stumbling and remembering how you always said I was clumsy but honestly it was just hard to walk with someone’s hand around your waist pulling you this way and that. It’s not any easier, though,

walking alone.

27 cracks – that’s how many there are between the parking lot and here, our no my favourite little streetway – I guess it’s a short walk, and I get so distracted anyway.

I check to see nobody’s looking, as usual – for different reasons I guess but I mean I’m glad all the same that no one’s around. I trace the broken lines on the wall there lightly - as lightly as I might trace the lines on someone’s face.

It’s funny, I can see everything, right there – the memories, the photographs I took superimposed just the same on the chipping whitewash. Also funny, because the wall behind that whitewash wasn’t even white to begin with – it’s – too easy to see so much.

Also funny; you know, people stare just as much at one person wandering around alone as two?

But it’s still so very

different. Oh, and there –

somebody took your place in the parking lot.

Friday, June 3, 2011

para la noche

it's almost like
the night has a taste all its
own;
like a smooth warm wine
or
melted chocolate
it moves around the corners of your mind-
seeps into the seems, behind the
screens you put up to keep in reason, the

light
of
day

like black gold; the night

turns the colors rich, dark, so vital
vibrant
alive and

content. like a lover who
you know - you know you'll meet them
in the morning, you know they reside -


and see them once every day is done.
the night -

to rest at your side.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

and still
I tremble

because they say
it's inevitable

projections (I couldn't resist.)

first time I heard your voice
"no surprises"
there I was, quilted blanket covering -

what

is

happening

I was surprised.
I had no idea -
And you know - every time
I'll only fall

deeper.
maybe it's the music;
maybe it's just
the simple resonance of

sound.


funny how words
can contain worlds within
their little black confines -

61 words
a lifetime
a memory,
vivid as summertime -

between two lines
just like this

a feeling.

only


didn't know
that I felt this okay -
that anyone
could make all those past - to borrow words,
"losses long left behind" -
go away

and I didn't know
that it wouldn't feel wrong -
to look in such a way
at such a person
with such a feeling

again.

"Naturally"

in the purest sense of the word.

and I'll say "wary"


because
it's one of those things -

not to know.

You know -
in the past, the ways
the days
the frayed messages I've been wired -

in the past,
the times I've been the most
so
so very open,

then
slam

sudden shut - down - left - down
on my own.

I mean, there's a reason I won't eat famous amos cookies anymore;
but that's another story.

in all my sincerity


there
standing, balancing -
a moment, a movement, testifying to the effects the
wind has on figures
who stand on Formica, regardless of the fact

it's entirely possible to be seen -

And there
I couldn't even look - couldn't even
take my mind
off

"What's on your mind?"

I meant, truly -

who
are
you?
inside, and will you
would you
take me as a thought to care?
I want your


hands hair thoughts smiles mouth kiss words sigh shock and too - I want to be -
trust me. trust me when I want to be
anything, for you

Saying that I would
be there
if you'd like -
always if you'd like,
because a smile and my wary give-my-all are such easy
things to give you

if you'd like


"What's on your mind?"

a dare
dare you to speak the thoughts
you're thinking -

precipice!





sketch


how adventurous are you feeling

Are you feeling brave?
To face the storms;
the dark
the light
the way you can't see but your feet are going to trip
anyway

To face
the dark alleys that extend
almost as long as a personal history -

Are you feeling brave?

Feel like, taking a chance?
Don't look down -
Just keep your eyes on
me. If you're feeling
adventurous -

Are you ready, willing
to


jump



kinetics


Rocking chairs are funny -
push pull them
and in the end,
actually we move each other.

Pervasive, in my thoughts -
you sit somewhere in my skull,
move

me

I move

So much that perhaps,
this motion
this movement

is lost

kind of like getting lost in the dark
like - how -

we-

move the-
night-
together-

impressions



impressions

are like marks we
left



on your skin.

people you meet at school functions



a chance meeting
corner eye meet me

hello

handshake man.

Soft -

ink stain?

Top button undone

brown eyes?
memory turns blue.

makes me a little blue


does he
do
you

I?

agree entirely
yes,
so.

Features take over
what I know now to be your face -


"Third freckle to the left -"
turn right you'll see
you can't miss it
too much
beauty within that
skin.

can't miss that
skin
covers words

gone
to
from

"Sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

to a simple
"good morning,"


breathed easy
at seven a.m.


Now if only
I could feel that breath
as it whispers what it writes
to the


alone a.m. me





connotations



Suggestive?
touch feel move
breath dark

strange,
unplan present past

future

the here-and - now
gasp


oxygen
cloy

hands

mouth

sensation
temptation
relation -

say speak

your mind

constant
fleeting

open your eyes

withdraw.

- too ended -
too -
soon.

For my father

Player piano -
the music sits somewhere
in between his fingers
and his
jazz, silent sounds.

I can't understand -
the words mean
time thought small slow smooth
move
that
beat
and flow.
flow -

something has come about
between his subconscious and his
soul;
Like how a singer can speak,
and then weave you
some lonely, lovely stranger's voice -

I know you,
but where did that come from?
Not even a breath.

He breathes within the music;
or perhaps,
the music breathes
in him.

Either way -
all left,
leaving a
sigh,
and a
gasp.

the air between your teeth

because he has words
and I just like to sit and listen -

Scared of such gravity,
Depth of the air, and he
will only speak words that
illuminate
What I swear
I was trying to see.

My only fragility being
in the envy
I feel for the air -

When I'm only somewhere,
and he's still

there.

on time and your face

it's funny, how much

someone's face changes
up close -
I mean, when it's just
right next to yours-
rightupclosetoyours.

And there's not that screen of air,
Dividing
the way I see your eyes,
or your mouth,
or the
little freckles on your

skin.