Heres Estrella

More Stars than There are

Month: May, 2019

Cup of Starfucks


Give me a nice Cup
of Starfucks:

Quickly procured
and scantily done---

I don't care about all
The Plastic
on my tongue,

So long as Their
army of Robots
churn out The Dope
from Morning
to Dawn.

So pour me
that neat Cup
of Cheap Grace,
A dozen or so ounces
A day,

Easy and laced,

Until All of Our
Bodies Shut Down.

getting even with madness

shadows crawling, sins go on repeating
as you scantily prop your back,
fighting cross-generational
demons.

years without Transcendence
or pure self destruction,
cut out from the fast and easy
perishing---

do you find yourself now
so needlessly harsh,
morbidly crass;
so stubbornly brash?

would opening your skull,
and peeking in to
snap these tense cords
bring you final release?

mute screams, muffled
between inner ears
reverberate and
seep---

until we are nothing
but knots over knots:

finding ourselves
in a messy string.

But hey now---
hey now, hey now:

If we are so Lucky
as to
Carry On Living...

Remember,
Grit your teeth!
trace the harder
route to Release---

Follow the timeless Patrons
of Form and Patience,

And all the while,
.
.
.

Rage.

Plan with fervor;
Desist; Trample if you must---

but Do---
not try but do,

Toss
until chaos
becomes Peace.

Contemplation: A Midnight Night Storm

The rain has been persistent throughout this night. It is a bit past midnight, and woken up by the whirring phone that warned of a possible flood, I am urged to stay up and wait for this tumultuous deluge abate into anonymity, so that the mind can finally quit thinking out loud.


The nature of the thunderstorm was not felt until I looked out to the balcony to rescue our potted majestic palm, which had been tipped over by the fierce wind, and was laying miserably on its side, with its branches awkwardly stuck into the balcony fence.

"My poor friend..." I lamented as I ushered myself outside the door.

Almost immediately, the reality of nature struck, as my pants and T-shirt quickly began soaking up the rain droplets being blown sideways past the illusionary comfort of having a roof. Wet garments feel thinner than when they were dry and warm, and the wearer gets reminded of how divorced we as a species truly are, when a little wetness and rain seem to become an ordeal.

I scurry back to the apartment with the palm, feeling its weight compounded by all of the water its soil drank up during the three hours it had been left in the downpour. Maybe it was no coincidence: I needed to get up from my purposeless slumber to ensure the comfort and survival of our botanical companion.

The various drizzling sounds of precipitation, with automobiles occasionally traversing in its midst downstairs, coupled with intermittent lightning strikes and their delayed, distant rumbling---there is something nearly otherworldly about the rain. It dresses our surroundings with a mystical skin that which speaks a variety of stand-alone languages: clarity, release,  even a grimy ruggedness, and more (depending on one's experience).

As a human creature departed from nature, I was(am) an lizstomanic, so I put on my pair of budget noise-cancelling headphones: a tune from seemingly another era comes up unexpectedly, and I am rushed into a special place, delivered there by a simple, much taken granted for ritual.

It is the strangest feeling: when personal melodic favorites that defined previous periods of one's life re-emerge in the distinguished present---he/she is temporarily dropped in an altered state, in which most of the old sentiments associated with the those near forgotten songs come rushing to the forefront of his/her senses, and it is so vivid that one could begin to fantasize, and maybe fear, if time and reality had rewound itself to a point in the unraveled, perhaps unravished past, or even more incredible, if the present reality was even real at all. What if, instead, we actually all unknowingly dwell within some simulated dream-like realm fabricated by our consciousness that had long ago been laid to sleep, perhaps forcibly locked away, shut tight behind a set of heavy, cold doors? What if---our True Awakening would produce a Light so Bright, that it'd tip the universe at its present state off its balance, and blind all of those who are too acquainted with both the Dark and Light..? 

Ugh, but really, who has ample practical time to ponder elaborately on such thoughts?

I beckon it'd be better to live and sift through the pieces as they come. So long as one remembers to simply.listen.

You might pleasantly surprise yourself with an set of tunes so personally ancient that upon hearing such, a mystical picture of that instant of yourself, now barely recognizable, is freshly painted before your mind's eye. Old song, old Self---but listen and feel closer, and allow New Interpretations and Realities to manifest, albeit they are many folds more difficult to procure than their once bone and flesh counterparts from that foggy, distant Past...

Still, Do try, partner! Like a slap happy Western Adventurer, striving on, against the lasting barrenness and with ever dogged Optimism and Faith, seeking to rekindle those porcels of Gold: prized Jubilance and Humanity, that which were hollowed out by Time and Fate, while the conscious of old became suspended in a day-by-day, week-by-week, and years-to-decades daze.

By this, look from outside your self-possessed veil, and acknowledge your hidden oppression, to which you had unwillingly handed your consent: to bear and its shroud of shoulder bending, neck snapping weight. Feel the pain and weariness, and acknowledge them. Then brew them all into a nice cup of rolling Storm, and let it rain down with a thunderous deluge, stirring you to wakefulness from your induced Sleep.

Look! Your Majestic Palm has been blown side ways, flailing in helplessness! Who does it have, but the full attention of your present Wakefulness?