Heres Estrella

More Stars than There are

Tag: creative writing

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?

 

Take It to The Heart, Please

These days
Are of endless novelty,
Absurdly modern:
High profits for the ones
Who trick passion with
Morsels of jittery confections—
Fast melting, quickly expiring.
Highly. Profiting.

Age of sensational Spasm,
Locked behind which, a long dusty
Book of delayed shame,
Regretfully nostalgic.
We cannot perceive the reality
of how we arrived upon
This existential wilderness,

Whilst being too busy
Occupying our conscious,
Shunning The Truth;

Rather to take it all
Up the Ass—
Than to bite real Peaches,
Causing them to Gush,
To Spew and Bleed—

The Sticky Juice
of Act and Consequence,
Pleasure and Pain,
Dispute and Acceptance:

Will We Ever
Relearn to open up
that rusty chamber,
Neglectfully sealed in our Hearts,
and refill its long-emptied
Reservoir to the Brim
with True Essence and Blood?

Mute Ecstasies of Summer

Sitting under the courtyard shade,
a block of dimmed rectangular architectural space
lays mildly cool;

Outside its precisely defined borders,
The sun seemed to have dyed everything
a bleached orange.

Waves of incessant breeze;
although felt in this unintended shelter, still carried
faint streaks of outside’s ubiquitous, gradually maturing
rolling heat. 

Once more, the summer winds carry us—
some of whom have either been much too weary,
or others having regretfully
not been weary at all—

Into an apparently constant state
of pulsating
yet nonchalant dreaming. 

 

Not Yet Ready for March

Crowded places filled with gazes of much un-needed Inquiry:
Curious, tense, lustful, and envious—mostly afraid—
Vexing to the extremities of bone.

Can’t a Brother eat alone
Without getting smothered by cloudy and judging glances?

damn unwholesome souls
lurking rampant on this Earth

so disturb me;
perpetually motivated from outwards, of which’s approval they seek;
must we ceaselessly suck like maggots
and compete with one another in nothing
but creature obsessions? 

Escaping the suffocating boxes of Men (and Women too),
Rows of densely packed Crackles sing like
Stereotypical Hispanic Aunties,
Fast and incessantly energetic—
Sitting on the power lines, they look like
Lines of blotched ink, so morbidly jet black,
That a weak mind may just mistake them
For a bad, bad omen—

and can we stop reducing our fellow creatures
into metaphors of our own mere understandings? 

You see, it might just be a rest stop
Along the journey of their mass, seasonal migrations—
Amongst themselves, a make-shift conference is undergoing.

A slow walk toward less crowded blocks,
Outdated Post Offices and Abandoned Factories,
Peeling Paints; Corroded Metal Beams—
Ironically, at such sights, the soured Heart sits more at ease;
Maybe they remind Us of our lost
But once True Essence,

Now empty shells, waiting to be swallowed up
Whole, down the fat, fat belly of the Real Estates,
and gentrified into “Creative Work Spaces.”

Looking into the dark corners of these obsolete Sentinels,
A pair of dimly gleaming green eyes peer back
in Innocent Caution; a Young Black Feline.

“Hey there, Friend.” You say.

For it is a rare encounter, after all,
On this humid Dusk quickly morphing into total Night Fall,
It is only you and the cat
Keeping Sigil at the Graves, six feet under which
Lay the molding corpses of the Earnest and Industrious.

Eventually, this on-foot excursion ended,
Leaving you atop an empty garage, possibly
Another tasteless fruit of some Real Estate Empire—
The view falls far short of what you anticipated:
Foggy flatlands scattered with boxes containing men and women
who mostly busy themselves glancing at each other.

A breeze blows, but does not freshen your face.

Oh February of 2018,
You stubborn Animal,
Must you so soon leave us empty handed?
I dreamt of more adventures in your bleakness.

Household Dystopia

The Sun, without notice, rises
Upon our individual dystopia;
Garden grown amok, overtaken by
Weeds rampant—intertwined with
Floral carcasses.

A fatal reality of decay, brought forth by
Negligence, perhaps coupled with bright
Streaks of depression, and its consequent sloth—

All the while,
Nothing was there to be done;
No unwinding of this tangled,
Graying yarn—

As we spent days chasing bread,
and slip past nights, nibbling on
Cheese, then poisonously chasing it down,
Not sleeping, but passing into
Unconsciousness, ruing our Daylight gone.

A bundle of rotting Roses,
Burgundy and Brown,
Sitting slanted and splayed
Unfittingly in  a vase oversized—
We are.

Yet here, maybe there; somewhere—
Under the caressing of Morning rays
In pastel, there is a vague, indescribable
Beauty to it all.

Freedom Days

 

Taste of flat beer,
Surprisingly, brings back
distant memories of freedom Days,

Free Days and
Easy ways—
Almost always, Blasé.

When one needn’t
to do much, but to Observe and Sway,
and sometimes crave—

barely Awake,
Still sleeping…
Oh!
this was Our
best state—

Rarely aspiring to don
on the great Atlas,
Never fearing
the coming
of a crucial Date.

 

 

The Dying Cicadas

The Cicadas are Singing
Louder and Louder;
But no one sees them—
Invisible messengers they are,
Hiding behind leaves.

Their songs are ringing
Even more urgent now,
As their time is near—
Another conclusion of the year.

Can you hear?
In the echoing of these
Seemingly inexhaustible,
Dying Cicadas,
Distant yet vivid memories,
Of our Season
Soon-to-be-gone.

And are we, always unwary,
Startled, even a little—
To have come without a Choice,
To Seal
Another irretrievable Summer
Into just blurry dreams?

She Washes My Feet

She looks
In dark amber,
Bright eyes—

Watery,
unclouded
Windows—

from them
hidden Purities
of a gray world
are reflected.

No
Heavenly Saint,

But she thanks
for the slightest things,
And Virtues
does she audaciously
Address,

that because of Her,
My feet are rinsed
Ever clean.

Losses

There he sat,
his Love like
A piece of charred
Coal

Following
Its most radiant
Hours.

Smoldered
In the afterglow
Numbness,

Yet
He carries
All the same
Passion and
Intensity

As he had
When first falling
In Love—

Only now having
To confront
A certain
Burning absence,
That’s all.
.

.

.

Perhaps, in some delusional but understandable way,
He was just crazy and strong and foolish enough
To solely allow the more miraculous instances
Linger and live on,
And to nurture them as a lasting beauty—
All in this ambivalent, erratic sea of sentiments
On the planet of Love.

The only sentiment he can rightfully cling onto
Is that the Love he shared was True,
And that alone is utmost cherish-able—

The absolute Divine awakenings and rescues,
Gifted by a True Love—

So much so that,
He shall only look back,
All grateful, bittersweet
Saline in tears,
Dissolved in understanding,
And wiped away in smiles.