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The Four Faced Wind

Poetry by Valeria Castellanos

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Reality

The Incurious Beatles

The incurious beetles
Are scurrying over the broken shards of reality
Slipping into the illusions of crevices in the canvas
Into cracks of absurdity, of obscurity
Obscenity, infinity
Into five fold mutations
Mutilations
Radiation situations
Stimulations
Simulations
Manipulations
Interrupted continuations
Eradications
Fornications, ejaculations
Fabrications of instability and insanity
Extinction events enclosed in a jar

It is the perfection of nature’s immutable laws
Which keeps me in balance
But, I am still descending into gravity
And, time is catching up
Space running out
Water turning into ice
Hair turning white
Bones cracking
Every mirage a possibility
But, don’t forget Fukushima

I am only a whispering flower
Made of dust
Thirsty
On the edge of the desert
On the edge of emptiness
On the edge of my own extinction
And, maybe the extinction of everyone else

Burned by passing asteroids
By raging daylight
Distant moons and meteor showers
And, howling, cosmic energies
Vibrations feeding my aura with sensations
And, revelations
Struck by a comet from another solar system
Bringing dreams fed by heavy, black stones
Moans transformed into a trembling, musical note
Of unimaginable beauty
And, a smile fed by the memory of every day which ever was

 

Vacation Day

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Vacation Day
Here I am, once again,

Standing the watch alone.

Today it seems the world is so old,
It is no longer able to age,
And, even when my eyes are closed,
I can no longer bear to see shadows.

… Sometimes it is so easy to go,
Away from the marketplace,
Away from the mob,
To close all the doors,
And, to just live inside my mind.
Then, reality is anything I choose.
Time, which was probably,
The starting point for everything,
Time, which is not a river,
Which is not an arrow,
Not even a circle,
Is at my bidding, then.

As long as I am alone,
I can be anywhere, everywhere, nowhere.
I can be myself,
With neither delay nor permanence,
And, the only things I have to watch out for,
Are my own thoughts and my nightmares.

When I am all alone,
I ask the clouds to talk to me.
Sometimes they have nothing to say.

Do you not love me enough to speak?
Nor even enough to laugh with me,
When I laugh?
To smile with me when I am smiling?

There isn’t much of a lock on this door,
And, I suppose soon I’ll be going out again.
Perhaps I’ll go back to the Everglades.
There I can be alone and still be in the middle of everything.
There I can hang around with the goblins,
Who drink from the fountain of youth,
And, laugh at gravity.

I find it very easy,
To get used to walking about like an animal.
But, still, I am doing my best,
To keep the fire from burning out,
Because I know there are salamanders,
Who grow into magicians when it is dark.
And, I am still trying to learn to write in blood,

So my words will be remembered by the heart.
December 31, 1998

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