Heres Estrella

More Stars than There are

Tag: literature

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.

Beauty Remains

Chestnut eyes
Glistening like rich amber,
Kissed by the Sun.

Scintillating a luster
so provocative
yet Ancient,

Irresistible is one
to be Entirely pulled
down the Timeless Stream
of Ancestral tales,

Now
All Condensed into
A Pair of Irises,
Shining translucently
In bottomless
Mink—

Such is
Their deeply settled and
Undiluted shade,
That in its Resolve,

Rose a Piercing
Sheen, prudently gazing
Upon the Millennia
In thousands Hitherto,
Or ever after.

Is This
The only Beauty
Tragedy is ill-fitted
to bury
Six-feet-under?

 

Facing A Twilight Sky

Who placed this horrific Thorn
In my Bone and Flesh?!

Was it a Tough Teacher,
Who, through all harsh disciplining,
Still intends to Nourish—

Or, was it merely
An ill-wishing
Witch?
.
.
.

Wise Shamans kindly remind Us
To not think only in what Lacks,

But We mortals remain too Hungry
For our own Sakes—

Wisdom passed on,
Yet scantily We digest.

Oh the Irony, baby.
Are we Rocks
In this Fountain of Life,

Wet, but never to have
Drunken a true Share?
.
.
.

If it is too hard
To stay Awake,
May I at last humbly ask
Of thee—

My Love, my Kin,
my Eternal Mate, whomever
I think You are—

Could You please contemplate,
Inconveniently, this corny and overused Notion,

“Have you ever seen the Rain?” 

Well, Have You?
Have you heard its Forthcoming,
And allowed its Simple Rumor

To have Stirred you
Deep,
Deep inside?
.
.
.

Now,
Shall We Sit
Side by side, and Once More
Try to taste the Ocean
In this Raining Sky?

An Addict’s Contemplation

What is it like,
to Be
Tonically Alive—

While the Flowers
Remain abloom,

We find
Fleeting affirmations of

Our routinely
Maintained
Lies.

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?

For Our Soft Wrists and Brittle Faces

How cruelly did Youth
Dare us to dream so frivolously,
That every burger we flipped,
Every broom we pushed—
Every petty tip waged to our once
Or still hungry pockets,

Dimmed our Brilliance into
Barely containable and feigned
Smiles, veiled behind which lay
Heaps of deferred aspirations?

And are We so hypnotized to confide
In this modern, fast-forward dreaming,
That the weight of Hammer
and Chisel became too much to bear,
Too much of  a nuisance,
Unwilling burden
For our unwieldy wrists?

Or is it simply too much a shame
For our extensively kept faces?

.

Long ago, in a pre-man age
Championed by the gods and creators
Who lived under cosmic rifts and divides,

Among them, a tiny yet miraculous notion
Was suddenly conceived—
Like the cataclysm bringing forth
An all new Philosophy and Faith—

A race of thinking, civilized, even
Highly intellectual beings
Whose core conviction sang: 

“We are born to Dream,
To Work, and Sweat
Not as obligated labor,
But as Our birthright 
To keep our too often wandering
Souls Pure and Intact!”

.

We now sit in wonder,

“Who were They?
A People who proclaimed themselves
Through endless Shame
And its complementary Glory,
Mankind? ”

 

so help me God

when I was just a boy,
I thought I’d live and die
exhorting goodness, being through and through,
a protector of Innocence.

but as just a man,
I find myself losing Faith
in this world of sin—
promises of my crusader days
empty or broken.

now, I pray that I die not
having only been a hypocrite,
swinging like a hopeless pendulum
between self-destruct
and usurping.

Amen.

Tough Love from Orwell

” There is no possibility that any perceptible change will happen within our own life time. We are the dead. Our only true life is in the future.
We shall take part in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone. “

George Orwell

 

 

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.

Baptized Lot of Metropolitan

It’s been raining all day here in my city; it’s nice to have these temporary periods of freezing but ultimately refreshing showers, as if nature is cleansing all of us in a preparatory ceremony of what’s ahead. Contrary to the conventional morose connotations associated with overcast days with incessant, chilling precipitation, I wish to persuade all of us to see it under a different light: Rain Excites; it dawns upon those who are willing the physical manifestation of inner tranquility, and rinses the once dried-up-tight knots of both the mind and body. Rain is a spiritual symbol of the meditative, altered state of mind, as well as the carrier of life.