if you see something wrong with the person, something incorrect in what they do, even something that makes you uncomfortable with the possible outcome – you are not in love with that person.
I have these rose-colored glasses. I don’t see anything but perfection in you. Only rose:
Just when I felt like giving up on us You turned around and gave me one last touch That made everything feel better And even then my eyes got wetter
So confused wanna ask you if you love me But I don’t wanna seem so weakMaybe I’ve been California dreaming
en las sombras largas yo ñangoto
-por Kameron Cole, Miami Beach, July 2012
en las sombras largas
yo ñangoto* como un gran murciélago, y un vencido.
en el sombra de una diorama grande de la una familia contento en el sol
yo, creatura sombría, los veo,
con las alas temblorosas y escamosas,
yo tiemblo. yo lloro a lágrima viva.
me descubre una chica joven e inocente
me dijo, “no disturbar a la familia, murciélago.
no se le permite, porque tienes llagas.”
ñangotado,lento, viejo –
ese soy yo.
en ombras, con llagas.
——————————- English translation, by kameron cole ——————————————–
in the long shadows
I squat* like a large bat, and a loser.
in the shadow of a large diorama of a family happy in the sun
I, dark creature, look,
with trembling wings, and scaly,
I tremble. I cry my eyes out.
I was discovered by a young and innocent girl
she said, “do not disturb the family, bat.
It is not allowed, because you have sores. ”
squatting, slow, old –
that’s me.
in shadows, with sores.
——————-
” ñangotarse also means “to lose heart”
a spirit. I don’t live anywhere. don’t unpack boxes. don’t leave friends. I just appear for those who need love and understanding for awhile. but these days, people don’t need love and understanding for any substantial period of time. certainly don’t need to be haunted by a ghost on a daily basis.
I thought that knowledge and talent would make people like me. apparently these things just slid right through me, because I’m empty – or, non-substantial, as the metaphor demands.
always looking in the window. the hearth. hand holding. bric-a-brac: the consummate joy of non-plasma people.
if it were funny, I’d be laughing. if it were clever, more people would be ghosts. but they all have lives. they value things. but I can’t pick up things. I value love only. that transient thing. does it just seem transient to me? am I paying attention to the wrong thing? it’s that deep blue thing, on the left, isn’t it? it’s not the blob of antique white in the center, surely? does it mutate, blend in? or do people just not want to hold onto it? just so personal, intimate. chafes the individuality.
the only disadvantage is that ghosts can’t die. they are remanded to the enclosures of the earth, in their ghostly bodies, until such time as they let go of the ones they loved, who couldn’t come along with them.
please leave the window open sometimes. and your heart open sometimes.
anni di franco: adam and eve
Tonight you stooped to my level,
your mangy little whore:
now you’re trying to find your underwear,
then your socks, and then the door.
And your trying to find a reason
why you have to leave.
But I know its cause you think you’re Adam
you think I’m Eve.
You rhapsodize about beauty
my eyes glaze
everything I love is ugly
I mean really, you would be amazed.
Just do me a favor,
it’s the least that you can do.
Just don’t treat me like I am
something that’s happened to you.
Cause I am,
I am truly sorry about all this.
You put a tiny pin prick
in my big red balloon,
and as I slowly start to exhale,
that’s when you leave the room.
And I did not design this game.
I did not name the stakes,
I just happen to like apples
and am not afraid of snakes.
But I am,
I am truly sorry about this.
And I envy you,
your ignorance.
I hear that its bliss.
So I let go the ratio
of things said to things heard,
as I leave you to your garden,
and the beauty you preferred.
And I wonder what of this will have meaning
for you when you’ve left it all behind.
I think I’ll even wonder if you meant it at the time.
this was you
I thought once, that I would bury you. weep at your grave.
now, it is I who must be buried. but you didn’t stay for that part.
but we did beat it together! we did it, side by side, and there was magic and there was love – and it was those things, and not the witch doctors, who brought you back to life.
it was a door I thought to open for you. among other doors. in the back of my mind, I knew that once you saw the open doors, you might just walk out. that was something I knew.
so, today, on the day I died, I hung pictures of you everywhere! I played your Anthems, again and again. they began as songs, then changed to messages. but at my funeral, they will be just anthems. no one actually knows the words, or any of the people who died, for which the anthem now alone stands.
From Hafiz
Watch out for spiritual la la land , where you might end up comatose Some early warning signs are:
…..
C. You start believing some basically regular guy or gal with dreamy eyes – who parrots wisdom – is a saint.
Your love lifts me higher
*****
So You Can Plant More Wheat
I would like to remove some rock
from your field
so that you can plant more wheat.
And those hills I see that are part of you,
I have some trees in mind for them
and flowering grasses,
so that you won’t erode,
when the elements pour.
Are we not lovers?
Cannot I speak to you like this?
Do I need to ask your permission
to hitch up my ox
and sing to him as I improve
your vast terrain?
The title to your heart came to my office.
In looking at it a great interest
in your soul developed.
The care of your soul
became mine.
So I would like to remove some stones
from your meadows;
then an orchard you could grow,
and the world,
and the world then,
will come to taste
your riches.
Hafiz
via calendar.
via calendar.
We have the same values. Don’t laugh. In my heart and in your heart is the same room. A room with a window. The window looks out on meadow. We both go the same room to look at that meadow through the window. Looking at the meadow gives us each the same feeling. So tangible, so in tact, so traceable by your finger, that it could even be named. But we need not name the feeling.
How could you be fooled by the trappings of societal interpretation ? How can words like democrat and alcoholic even enter our world? All of that. All is. Veneer. Covering.
We ate the same. We are one. Forget the rest. You do know how.
kronikoles 