Teresita Garcia, 01/12

Frozen Water

Frozen water is his element. It speaks to him through the splitting, spurting chips that violently break away from the clump, retelling in touch that what looks strong, can be weakened, reshaped, into something else. Sometimes creating art is like watching the world go by with one eye. In the beginning there are various tasks. You use the proper instruments; rotate this way and that, polishing every angle while wearing protective gear. The breaths you take are given off as light, vibrating in and out with a slow mechanical hum that warms, gesturing the imitation of rain. The outcome is a reflection of brilliant beaded light, cool and silent, like a whisper that is erased from the expanse of time.

He thinks of her this way, within the sensuous wrecks of beauty that he moves, rips, and adds layers to, wrapping every part tighter and tighter with immobilization, more alive than her being. Here, her essence will merge with his, over her likeness. He can feel the power that blasts through his genius, through his rough idea of domination. His defeat shall become his victory, and the world will shriek, quietly masculine, as he walks and kicks through puddled water with the candor of eloquence. This is the source of his survival, the way he escapes from failure, from her pursuing an answer to the reason he broke off their engagement. In relationships, one always serves the other, becoming less than the other. She is strong. And he fears.

He looks at himself in the mirrors of frozen water. He cut himself shaving, scraped away the flesh, bleeding. He thinks he may need forgiveness though he doesn’t believe much in God anymore. The premise of their union is on his mind in the reflection of desire. He remembers how she was always trying to make something beautiful a capable part of his life. She’d write him poems, see him with no judgments, laugh at his jokes, and weep at his sensitivity. It didn’t matter to him that she was already married, pain loves pain and it makes for great art. He never told her how much he loathed poetry. He never told her a lot of things. At times like this he thinks life would be better if he were different, yet he is different; a victim of a love that will eventually melt away into nothing.

 

The Walls We Build
October nights smile in communion
with the dawn. A hearth’s fire
burns among tobacco trances that
weave in small strands high above
the Geisha wall screen; cleverly
placed next to a red gladiola
fixture.

Somebody dies every four minutes,
you know, sometimes even more often
than that. We build our interiors,
clothed and sheltered with luxuries
that bring repose to the spirit, even
if it’s among the petrified ashes in
a cigarette tray and

the acrid portions of meat among silver
and blown glass ornaments. We all
know stories like these. We can feel
how a blind man’s heart pounds silent,
lonely, among hope stored in a Chinese
wishing pot. There are longevity chests
that house the soul

with resistance and hardships, as a
ceremonial dragon gong strokes the
solitude, bringing images that landscape
our entrails while they crack and peel
like old paint, dying periodically, in a
faithful exaltation of fineness and
credibility.

Promote. Poetry.
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