Sometimes...

Visions of the old cemetery come back to me...and the memory of the heat of my childhood is their afternoon companion.

I came from that dust and heat that [still] permeate the air of my barrio.

I was that kid that used to stare at those old graves- of both the Old and Young and Too-young.

I will always have that part of me sitting under that old tree.

Strange[r] Man.

Your voice came from somewhere warm.From valleys wreathed with gnarled trees and singing brooks.

Like the blanket of an afternoon's heat, you surround my limbs.

Molded Exclusivity.

Beginnings:
With me being polyamorous- I gravitated towards E... for he was intelligent, creative, silent and calm. Even with the professed love for another, I let him into my world as he led me into his... with the professed love for K never diminishing in its potency.

Next:
E, being so much like myself- welcomed others in as well and I fell into a mold culture and traditions set... and so, War broke.

In retrospect:
I was the one with the contradictions. I chose to rebuild the ruined city yet crushed one brick after another until came a second and final Fall.

The present:
E, I offer no apologies for what has been done can never be undone. Rather, it is some form of thanks I now send to you: for the catalyst that triggered refocusing, integration and consolidation of long-held beliefs that I consciously evaded.

Honesty is not a bitter brew that we must choose not to take in.

Reality's recognition and objectivity must never be pushed behind that irrational exclamation of, "But my world and I were violated!"

... for, in all truthfulness, I would have done the very same thing that you had.

[Come to think of it, I did.]

With these, having now been finally said, I thank you, beloved.



S.

Another Set Of Duplicates.

My old apartment. E's house. My soon-to-be former apartment. The studio.

All these keys to the various houses I've come to call "home."

Funny, the house I grew up in has no need for keys.

Hmm... ever-open. Ever-waiting.

Laughing Mountain.

You spoke of music in those hills.

Songs from your once-young limbs.

Twirling with leaves.

Running with the wind.


Your seasons are mine now.

And so are your songs.

And that same joyous smile you've always worn...

is now mine as well.

Oh fragile-looking man.

I know now why you laugh the way you do. I am your neighbor-mountain.

Where The Crows Nest.

The folds of your skin hold secrets.

The secrets of your life.

Yet they also keep the open and visible truths.

[How you have lived your life.]

No paper nor scroll can better document you.


I love you, dad.:)