Et Quoi Donc?

Et quoi donc,
Après le silence d'un an;
Des bâtiments perdus,
Des maisons versée,
Des corps fondus?

Et quoi donc,
Après un tremblement du cœur,
Debout sur des pieds immobile
A la chasse d'une voix qui se cache dans les ombres de mes mémoires?

Quoi donc après une vie chanceuse,
Un départ maladroit,
Un adieu qui répercute dans la tombe d'une mère endormi?

Les petits mots m'arrives;
Doucement,
Lentement.

Find the Music

Find the music. On the street.
In the subway.
Out of the tinkering technology that renders the trombone an anachronism.
Find the music on fourth street in a city that isn't jaded,
Inside of a body that lives
Even when it rains on Saturday.
Find a body that validates,
That sees the truth of this present.

Now ride back and meditate.
Sit on, whistle and, write on the low (low) timber of that which has yet to happen.
Live on the lie that you can fix the past,
And ride, ride inside of the music that you do not own.
Ride.
Ride for the truth you do not know.

Letters to Ayiti

Last time I wrote, I folded the text, and sent it as a letter to an undetermined location. Without an envelop.

The last time I wrote I was in a desert populated by mercenary cactus seekers. They stole all of the cacti and left all of their water bound tightly in your calabash gourds.

Last time I wrote, I was on a packed car, in a rattling vehicle on my way to china in the body of a nineteen year old who was trying to show me what it was like to dance as an scientific experiment: "We must know why we move, to hypothesize the end.'

I've never been to China and she only went to China to go have a peek at the billions of curios in such a curious place. She spoke the language--but she never greeted anyone.

I held on to her words because they gave me meaning.

They gave meaning to the place right below my ankle that continuously hurts when I remember all of the lives that I have forgotten. And I stared quietly at the movement that shook her tiny toes and left her eyes static, glued to the thing that she could not understand.

She never found the cacti.

And I stopped writing because I relished the emptiness.

It is a longing that cannot be expressed, a destitution that cannot be defined, an ache that must be situated as agony because it has no cure and no mortality and I have found that it is only justified when I am most small in the back of a closet, inside of the negative imagination, reinforced by mindless isolation of multiplying paper. I am a reject replica of a misspent journey, bound by the terms of my tenure and nurtured by the rabid impotence of that which is anchored in the middle of the sea.

The landscape of my insomnia has room only for the perfumed and nameless cottoned trees that give fruit in the beautiful night to the sounds of the Ave Maria and the wailing of the many-named mother.