Tuesday January 3, 2017
The creamy sun surrenders beyond those noble mountains. Right over there. Now the day is dark and the fire cracks and the stars begin their distant chants. It's safe to dance. Only the grass can tell how much you care. But it's not about you. It's about the dying embers, the ones that speak unspoken colors the ones that breathe forgotten flames. If you listen they'll teach you how think in shades of molten light as they burn their way through the dizzy shadows of your moving flesh. These scorching hours remind me that summer lessons come in autumn hues.
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Monday January 2, 2017
I've never been here before, somewhere between the withering dunes and the silver shore. I end up colluding with the salty mountain mist. We agree that anywhere we are is a fine place to be. In fact, the sea brings us a giant wooden spool to dance on, a round table for our banquet of slow steps. It is covered with a crunchy carpet of alien life forms. Then I realize the mist is actually a relentless fog, a thick river of bright air, a quiet ambassador of unbound worlds that envelops the tiny republic of possibility that I am. Sunday January 1st 2017
Shut up. Take me to the colors. If I fall envelop me swiftly in the thick breath of masses so I don't forget where I've been. If I do, drum me into the frequency of working bees so flowers never cease to astound me. Take the parts of my body that refuse to comply with the seasonality of beauty and let them bloom on their own time. If you see them, tell the gods that I dance that I practice old magic with my body. Tell them music is Braille for my blind bones to find their way into being. sábado 31 de diciembre 2016
Al borde de un precipicio rocoso, allá donde se evaporan las fronteras entre las nubes y el mar, su cuerpo se petrificó con la sal. Fue con las caricias del viento que eventualmente ella se hizo polvo y recuperó el movimiento. Los únicos testigos de ese vuelo fueron las flores sagradas. El polvo fino de su cuerpo aterrizó sobre los pétalos a la hora del sol y los últimos rayos caramelizaron aquel milagro. Cuando el sol se hunde en el brebaje salvaje de cielo y mar, las flores recuentan que ella una vez fue de piedra antigua y de sal |
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