{"id":1441,"date":"2012-01-01T17:24:52","date_gmt":"2012-01-01T17:24:52","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/?page_id=1441"},"modified":"2012-01-05T14:59:18","modified_gmt":"2012-01-05T14:59:18","slug":"teresita-garcia-0112","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/teresita-garcia-0112\/","title":{"rendered":"Teresita Garcia, 01\/12"},"content":{"rendered":"

Frozen Water<\/strong><\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

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\u2019t 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\u2019d write him poems, see him with no judgments, laugh at his jokes, and weep at his sensitivity. It didn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The Walls We Build<\/strong><\/div>\n
<\/strong><\/div>\n
October nights smile in communion
\nwith the dawn. A hearth’s fire
\nburns among tobacco trances that
\nweave in small strands high above
\nthe Geisha wall screen; cleverly
\nplaced next to a red gladiola
\nfixture.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

Somebody dies every four minutes,
\nyou know, sometimes even more often
\nthan that. We build our interiors,
\nclothed and sheltered with luxuries
\nthat bring repose to the spirit, even
\nif it\u2019s among the petrified ashes in
\na cigarette tray and<\/p>\n

the acrid portions of meat among silver
\nand blown glass ornaments. We all
\nknow stories like these. We can feel
\nhow a blind man’s heart pounds silent,
\nlonely, among hope stored in a Chinese
\nwishing pot. There are longevity chests
\nthat house the soul<\/p>\n

with resistance and hardships, as a
\nceremonial dragon gong strokes the
\nsolitude, bringing images that landscape
\nour entrails while they crack and peel
\nlike old paint, dying periodically, in a
\nfaithful exaltation of fineness and
\ncredibility.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"parent":934,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1441","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\nTeresita Garcia, 01\/12 - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/teresita-garcia-0112\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Teresita Garcia, 01\/12 - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"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. 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