where’s the language you learned from?

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@andthenlightningstrikes
where’s the language you learned from?
Mario Giacomelli Il Mare, 1963
for some reason
drawn to light
and lights and lights
in suspension
over the dark
little bonfires
from afar
you grasp
some vision
and stay with that
the black
container
still we try
we gaze crash like
crash waves the shore
little songs in my head
what is the substance
from san carlos to el conde
distant stations radio exclusive
we all play some
popurrí
it’s no wonder as we speed by
there’s no song like
you or me
bachatica
dembowsito
bottle blond
or distant hum
smoke and grunge
words in graffiti
i feel hungry as
the green golds
under gold and
under fading
it’s your turn on the chess board
i don’t want to run from myself
somewhere in the abyss
lit up street hot hot
music from the firemen, live
grabbed a drink i’m back
stopped just to find some
stopped just
ify your actions
ain’t easy doing it
right
i sit down and look into the dark around me
listening to a single cicada and perhaps another distant one
cars passing by - you know the drill
it’s different and the same
same writer on a different place
se dejó del novio
sings someone passing by
on a motorbike
people come in and out - they take their turns
and i sit down in the dark
something pulls my eyes into
a certain need to cry
is it the hunger?
what am i hungry for?
is it a pair of eyes - is it what i go and look for in the streets - hot hot and tiring - is it the art that keeps on recalling - is it the feeling of shrinking down because of the lack of an answer
i listen that cicada and another motorbike - steps too - noises coming from inside
it’s a new balcony
a strange kind of melancholy
passing by
i was drunk two nights ago
strange joy then into my
loneliness
yet you’re never truly alone
so much resonance around
and then there’s my center that blooms
like the little flower i saw once under the rain and called it me
then that cicada and the smell
of eucalyptus
i don’t know what i’ve become
a man and then the line blurs
for i’m many things and you know
most of them good
some of them - man
what can i do about it?
watch me try
dogs bark and video laughter
i still can’t breathe quite right
a strange melancholy
i want not the lights to be gone
i guess that’s what i have
it’s night and it’s politics
car passes and i think of
my own self passing by
long poem long song and
nobody still
i drop the line and notice
light had just come back
i’ll listen
drunk on the way back
fast thru the buildings
speedin thru
fading lights and watching
i’m someone else’s problem
my own
i like it like that
on color strikin
like lightnin
i sway slow through the room
Black Milk playing through the speakers
i think of eyes and wonder
who is it i haunt
Basquiat on the wall: upon leaving the norm
a man lifting to the skies on a balloon
ho-hum
i open up his notebooks
i’ve jotted on my own
swaying and haunting
eyes that i don’t know
you’re not from here
are you?
might you surprise me
night in your eyes
might night surprise me
the truth
woman walking out of a shop
crying? a man holding her?
a preacher man preaching loud
you can barely understand
at his feet, remains of a fallen coconut, broken
a woman in a red dress on a beach chair, listening nonchalantly
mornin rain i’m up to see you
there is more to do
this is my choice
summer heat guess i should feel you
and so you breeze
i miss the moon
Cloud Study, 1916
may rain in the morning
may sun in the
afternoon
the birds outside 17:41
ironing clothes
on the way back home,
a lift
then tangerine
then a bag of chips
sitting home
silent becomings
passing time
to not resist
slowing down
surprise
you’re here
and the ac’s on
as summer is
what are you
if you’re not
in relation to me
in the screaming void
what am i to you?
if ever an instance
for you to black and white
falling into scream?
summer night outside
i let out into it
a certain darkness
you in relation to me