January 3, 2016

un lobo rojo nos mira

image by Ministerio Ambiente Ecuador. via Flickr ©

un lobo rojo nos mira  

the "I", is often the voice
the "you", the listener 
the "we", fellow travelers in space and time...

despite being solitary, sentient beings, we most often find our 
true selves when in the company of others...here, perspective 
changes purpose to one of bowsprit eyes...
with you, the reader, becoming clothed
 in the body of me, the writer...

the following episode is a po'boy sandwich dream, 
heavy on the garlic and peppers...

(are there often many tourists with you 
in your dreams of exotic places and things?)

it was Ecuador, somewhere in the south, in the mountains of 
Parque Nacional de Yacuri near Peru...there were tales of this 
certain mountain with its tucked natural stadium for fútbol...
you could drive up to the top of it, though you could still 
witness, a place with living skin, living skin you ask, well, its 
plants and animals merged into one moving amoeba-esque 
consciousness...when you decided to amble off the road and 
into the flora for example, the sharp grasses would soften 
their spine-saw fingers and become a hedgehog with eyes 
that knew they never had to know words to know you, 
to tell you nirvana was often a very low to the ground 
kind of food for the soul, the kind you could 
touch and taste and take with you, its glow, where ever you 
went, memory needs be seeded too I suppose...

and all the while 
there were things 
that kept ringing in 
my head, singing in words 
I didn't need to read lips to hear...
was being told to look around in awe, to look 
slowly around this place, for it was a place 
where magic never left...

the road up the mountain looked newly paved and delicately 
clung to the sides with no guardrails and thin white lines, it 
seemed as if it was finished a few minutes before we began to 
drive up its climb, but was told it was fashioned some thirty 
years earlier...we went to see a dusk time game, that would be 
illuminated by bio-luminescent plants and insects when the 
Sun finally slid down beyond the mountains into the Pacific,
the game was between two club teams
from the little villages of Zumba and Vilcabamba...

 (to be continued)



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    2. I like that concept as well as the dawn, dusk and gloaming just being words for the kinds of "time game" poems, paintings and certainties of movement we endure and endeavor, while human...in my dream the colors in the dusk light were hypnotic and playful...