travellingchel

And now-in the casa of my lover-as he plays lovely music in his lovely way. You can´t imagine how it sounds- he sounds like he´s from another level of being-his dual melodies and the doce pauses and dying of the notes-their quiet and sometimes not- sometimes sudden births and their lives and their sweet-sweet deaths-this is almost too much-his playing is so sweet- low and lingering. And I can still hear the dead notes because they die so slowly they seem to become ghosts that join you in your body- -and the smell of his marijuana lingers and is so fine and all this as he plays and plays so low and so very lovely. Like a fucking fairytale. Strangely though-there's a little shadow behind my ears as I sit here with his music and marijuana passing over me-unclear at first for my own safety..but.. it's the thought of a soft soft woman (who is she? )-and me-and I would be so skinny and rangy-would be the Marcelo of the relationship Just a little shadow behind my ears.. because oh-you...

As a Malaspina student you can send poems to their newspaper email account. If they like it, they will put it in the next edition as the poem of the month. I wrote a few I thought I might send in. I never sent it in. This is what Sept.´s draft looked like. A Half Pair Can´t find my shoes again. Mon, Tues, Thur, Fri. It´s Wednesday. Christ, Wednesday 5.00 date with my guy-a clinking ghost that looks a hell of a lot like you. The shoes for the brassy outfit I´ve planned are brown, and frayed at the edges; Frayed in that way you know didn´t happen accidently over time, Frayed like frayed nerves again tonight at 5.00 Deliberate and stupid, these frayed edges of mine. And I can´t find them. Sometimes my shoes are so inappropriate Like wine and pizza And your hand on my breast or mine on yours when my boyfriend leaves. I don´t need shoes then. Still, today my shoes would match Only I haven´t found my other one. You can´t work with only half a pair of shoes, Or one with one of another pair. I...

Death of a Pomegranate Wednesday morning-I’m sitting at the kitchen table with coffee, contemplating a pomegranate. We’ve got guests coming over tonight, and my room had to be cleaned last night. Clothes washed, fresh sheets put in, secret things removed from under the bed. It was late when I finally slept. Mother walks in. It’s early and she’s still in her nightgown. It’s an old one, blue and frayed around the edges. She’s washing her clothes too. ‘Morning’. I find it annoying that I have to muster up the energy to be pleasant so soon. Mother will sometimes tell me I need to see the light of day when I get up, that I’m too surly in the morning. I’m too surly at night too. ‘Good morning’. I say, tearing into the fruit and not looking up. Her hair will be frizzed a bit from her sleep, something she won’t notice or won’t care. This has always bothered me. ‘Do you have classes today?’ Pouring herself coffee and sitting across from me. I look at her. I want to say that I wouldn’t be up if...

"Danielle called for you." Why do I always think of Daniel in the den of lions when I hear her name? I ask myself these questions when it has something to do with Danielle, Em’s last girlfriend. Silence. I wait. "Em?" "Ok. Thanks." Not turning her head, not even her eyes move towards me. Something's tightened in her. "So...are you going to call her back?" I feel like I've missed a step in the dance, and she's turned without me. "No." Said very quietly. More silence, and her body language murmurs anger. "Did I do something wrong?" Only I'm confused. Neither of us move. "I just don't understand how, after everything we've talked about, you'd think I'd want to talk to Danielle." She responds quietly, but not hesitantly. "Ok." After everything we've talked about.' But you haven't really ever told me anything." Again, silence. "Jesus, Em. How am I s...