sketches of figures in ink

nicolas. i met you twice in the same place in succeeding years. the first you sat at my side, and we listened to jazz in the dark. the second the jazz played us at the piano; later you shouted nadando in san leteo, your head swimming with wine and your new adulthood. the time intervening between these two meetings was filled with quiet nights: happy, sad, dancing, screaming beat at the world, wandering down streets filled with teachings and sorrows. wine and poetry has forged our brotherhood. we have mourned our vagabond guitarist in bitter words, cursed a long succession of impulses. we have sat in the university at night, writing verses and discussing the revolver that is time. we have spent long days at the finca, walking the mountainside in search of meditation, lighting the fire in search of warmth, drinking coffee in search of motivation. we are the sons of this place; we shall not leave it. we are the sons of these pains; we shall not leave them.

a soul is a hand where you stand
all that you command

sol, gypsy princess, morning star. your quietude opresses me. we sat on the roof and watched the sky, smoking cigarettes in the dark. smoke is the love between us. we held hands on the road, pondering san jose in the darkness; you told manu you loved me. you told me 'your hand is like a corpse's'. your mystery i do not pierce. i kiss you only with my eyes. sol, with your gypsy hair and flamenco steps. you are darkness and a light; smoke is the love between us.

she sings softly in a darkened room
she shouts and dances
sleep will take her soon.

i am not a fish i am a cold indian, and you are my quiet reserve.

daniella, floating freely in your dream. i do not know you but you have touched me with words. you have spoken to me of the dreamers and the real ones and the things in between. in your house we have had gatherings of similar spirits, we have all gathered there. one night you (pretended ?) the impulse to kill nicolas and sol. you motioned me quiet, and went into the next room to threaten them with a knife. later you spoke to a witch outside your window, showing her your drawings, your tattoo, singing her songs to cheer her sadness. we call you la monja and for some reason this is right. you plumb the depths of your imagination without fear of the consequences, but you never step over that ledge. you always come back to us safely. godspeed! you black emperor plays loudly in your home, or tiersenn or chopin or loud screechings on the violin. you live in a place set apart, wherever you may be.

tide effaced
and saddened eyes

manu, fabio, and leo. you are a grouping because you are never apart. manu with your connections, your youth, and your sarcasm. manu who never fails. with an eternal card up his sleeve. with whom i sing in every party. fabio with no goals. with strangeness and costumes. fabio the driver. leo of impressions and ventriloquy, who never drinks.

its been a couple days now,
they've been wandering the town.
their eyes they popped open
and now they're bleeding brown.

derek, the vagabond guitarist. derek with lacerations of the soul. you search and do not find. where have you gone, brother of mine? your search leads ever into darknesses. i could tear down the sky for you, light streaming thru the new emptiness. i could do this for you, if you wished it. derek with his head in the ground and forever handcuffed. your songs are like blades and your poems like urns. where will you put your ashes, lost one? and who will bury your soul? there is no cowardice in running from the dark. it is too great for us all.

and if you fell like icarus
maybe its time you took a rest
maybe its time you failed a test
and settled for less

anais, who is last because she is first. anais, always by my side. i have known you the longest and there is much left to know. anais who can divine my lies. your moodiness and your strange laugh. she is streetwise and always cautious. what can i say of you, beloved sister? what words can i say to sketch the figure of you? ink is poor next to life and vision. anais who never drinks coffee, whose emotions burden me. anais who knows me well, who knows my loves and sadnesses. we met in a parking lot, not understanding why all the other kids had brought their parents. we were 16 years old, too old for chaperones. why didn't they understand this? they shall not understand us, no matter what number of years we can give. after all, if time has died, of what importance are years?

shes got em figured out by now
she knows they cannot sow
so now she's stitching up their wounds
but she's calling chairman mao