rupisima’s Upstream Escape

Someone's

leap of faith

crashed

in my backyard.

I am now left

with

a broken heart

and

noise pollution

that

refuses

to leave

me.

There was

no rubble,

no mess

that I can

clean up and forget.

I stood

at the edge

of the sky

and

heard the clouds

encore.

I still stand ...

faithless,

frozen,

unable to

erase

the compunding echoes;

compelled

to perform

a capella

to

muffle

the enchanting clamor.

without consent

i

post-

poned

my cries

because

there

was

no one

who could

translate

the

acute timbre

of

my silence.

Compliant whispers

brimmed my ears

and

emptied

my

heart of  any

hope

and

yearning

for

Différance.

trivial,

contemporary,

frivolous and

yet

demanding.

I simply forget

how your

invisible shadows

blow

my most timid

gaze

into

succulent

excercises in

ecstasy

amdist a daring sea of

abanicos

and broken promises

engulfed in lace.

A wispy

brushstroke

of

sand peppered air

awakens

my

lust

for

your attention.

If I got lost,

would you

look for me?

Where would you

look for me?

No footsteps behind,

no map in hand,

everywhere to go,

just pocketful of syllables

and a handful of breaths;

How will you

look for me?

If every yesterday I forget,

living for every sunrise,

as you take pictures of every sunset,

and you never ask me my name.

If I got lost...

would you?

in the penumbra

lay

a

scintillating

sliver

of

light.

Oblivion

takes no prisoners,

just

treads lightest

upon

ghosts and shadows.

belles lettres

recalling dawn,

suffice

to renew

a silent flight

in the distant finite terrifying

penumbra.

An echo response:

short wings

flapping

may be

all

WE

can

muster

today

to prove

my own

FLight.

this time around

I want to be an idea,

maybe just

an

aporia.

What if

we all were but an idea...

just a thought,

a paradox,

a concept?

I could be

a diphthong.

denouncing the hegemony of consonants,

challenging unicity and yet

embodying singularity;

infinite point of

infinitely distorted time & space;

speaking beyond their numbers,

and your fears;

finding every reason

to watch you

unpout your lips,

your mind and

hold me

as

me.

This season

has

become

an excuse

to

disturb

carnavalized foliage

and

surrender

your thoughts

of hiatus.

Bitter solistice

that

forgets

how

distance and magnetic fields

mutually

inversely proportional

promise

another

celestial

rendezvous.

An imagined

tryst

of wait, voice and gaze

suspended

on

a grain of sand...

The palm of your hand,

suddenly,

infinite.

cluttered clattered clamour,

perplexed exhales,

eroteme sholders

disrupting a sea of chaotic silences

and vacuos mental monologues.

Perhaps

now

is a good moment

to reclaim

noise

and

remember

the ungrateful clamor

that

responds

to

noted translations

of

a relentless

spirit

and

a

preposterous

imagination.

because I imagined it.

because you could.

because it rained.

shoddy scrawls on a yellow post-it,

covered in sribbles guaranteed illegibility;

in a foreign language I drew the near future lines.

Impossible vision and tardy news

drew the inverted arch on a tired face.

Just

because we may have imagined it,

because a thirst is not yet quenched.

like dew drops in the spring

surfectants sliding silently

over jubilant leaves and petals,

a baritone commands her mute presence

to demand

an echo of

the undeniable, irrefutable fictions of kind.

Translated resistance meanders

interstitial geographies

where subjectivity and

synchronicity defiantly

intervene to reconfigure

melody.

A single note remains

impeccably taped to the mirror:

"If you hear this... forgive me"