`Week-End/Dreams' .... de qui je reve.
I'll wake up in the middle of the night dreaming about that untouchable
road I planned to take. Much like the fog covered basin of that mountainside,
I (seem to) pour through the branches of these never ending forests.
Butterflies fly up towards the misty morning's light. A journey towards
the sun, blinding, life-giving, warmth. The smell of freshly cut
melon lingers in the air and sounds of knives tap my patience on the cutting
boards, spirals up as though a draining star would suck that pierced thumb,
bleeding--hum..... Check my pulse once,twice, on my temples while the fans
continue to cool in the hot afternoon's early morning jest. To tell
a story and not discuss its meaning; like a creation, but not its creator.
Such beautiful art continues to flow. Being awake all night to witness
a new day borne...
The quiet-ridden streets dominate this world dead. Each cycle
is repeated only to die again, by the stopping of those running metro--lineage,
ignored. Who is that man on the street? Begging for your sympathy
snub? Behind chain linked fences--adorn a sunken--what used to be
a building, now a carcass filled quaintly planted garden of weeds, headed
towards North Beach. Smells rise, but not in jest--Editor's note:
reorganize thoughts before writing this mess--Pinto
con imagines invisibles a un recuerdo de reconocer lo innocente, dejame
respirar tu aire una vez mas, "I
paint with invisible imagaes to the memory of re-knowing the innocent.
Let me breathe your air one more time". Walking as Venus spys
from a bluish-black sky, well beaten from the night before. Flourescent
lights illuminate the leaves of some trees outside the Red Fox Room,
well adorned to the mistaken Dorian Gray, making existence all the
more surreal. I wait on the rooftop of some old building, "Used to
be a cult house after being a health clinic," I wait... City lights
intact, flickering as the rain starts to pour, and I wait...,"She's not
home, but will arrive soon." (As drunk and ill tempered as her father that
beat that sense of hostile, exceptional, critical, love of saddismo, into
her). On the rooftop, where stray shoes are thrown to be lynched
on those powerlines, I wait. "Power lunch," he said as the night
of insanity continued. "My car is alright. The electrical tape
did its job." Little did I know that all that was needed was a bit
of coolant. Stop every so often, while the city sleeps, to check
if the fan is connected. I smile at the cars driving past me on old
interstate five, underneath the gateway towards Pasadena--3am...no danger,
yet.
Carolina Aboumrad.
