to the rebel

i have seen your eyes in pictures
they water in the dusty ink of newspaper
i have seen your desperation
and felt the sting of your suppression
from my haven i have seen your women
take up the heaviest of arms upon feminine shoulders
you have screamed politeness
while your children starve and your nation perishes
and now in your moss covered mountains
and beds in the trees
in layers of sand-colored linen
you stand with unmeasureable pride with ink hair
and liquid eyes the color of your earth
you strike with the tools of the tiniest
terror and amplification

So gone

Gone is a condition that I keep myself in permenantly.
I like the feel of it.
Apart from the escapist connotations,
gone is really just the sensation of being faster than all the sludge that piles up on all of us.
Gone is the tangible liberation from all the definitions people stack up on our shoulders and from all the emotions people demand of us. I'm gone to all the places that filled my day dreams when I was five, gone to be the person I've been investing in ever since I learned to write time and draw faces and find vessels in wet clay.
So now to realize, after all the blustery exits and glossy-eyed goodbyes, shrugging off guilt and painting on confidence,
I realize that all the distance I've gone can evaporate in a single blink.
And I'm right back to the place I started from.
And that place. Is where you are.

Budapest

Budapest hums to me
my solitary footsteps announce my presence
on the stones of the city
as I make my way through castles
and dilapidated empires.
all the luxary of europe catalyzed on these bridges
and spits from the spires
on the skyline of this city.
I have beaten autumn here
and the leaves have all turned golden
against the gilded grey facades of finery.
the smell of fall swoops beneath my curtain of hair
and breathes on my collarbones.
madama's treble still echoes
in the hollows of my ears,
and though an insistent chill sticks to my skin,
I am increbibly complacent on the streets of Budapest.

inolvidable

barcelona stays with me
cool on the back of my neck
gaudi has left all of his calculated sensuality
along the curbs and between the bricks
and i rush like a child from peice to peice
enchanted
his creamy marble still chills my palms
and his great arched ribs still bend my spine
back in awe to swallow it all
my tongue still tastes paella
and i still hear the relentless pounding
of dancers' heavy shoes on stone
my eyes are still heavy
and they rest against the lines of las meninas

my adulation is cemented.

a landscape

rupturing out of the concrete city
the landscape of greece is savage and dishevelled
and the earth meets the sea with an animalistic satisfaction.
stone erupting from the depths of the earth
without making effort to host the softness of soil
or the cover of foliage.
the self-indulgent cliffs let the bodily weight of the waves
rush against them with urgency
and an anxious sense of tragedy paints itself
on every inch of one's skin.
there is no harmony in the provocative sculpture
of these mountains
and there is no calm in the cusps of this shore.

theseus

victorious against the blurred black canvas
still only an inkling tucked into the horizen
the deafening silence bursting excitement swallowed up by the waves
even his own father can not palpate the breath of nike
and neither does his anguish permeate the harsh noon sun
to warn his son of his ignorant demise
into the foaming mouth of his namesake.