palabras

[lesmumblebees]

Am i a person place or thing Am i the string of words that form this question Am i the air on which it rides

And if i am the air Do i dwell in your lungs Do i run through your veins

If i cut you would i bleed out Staining the pavement the parchment the petals Would i soak into the soil and become the earth

Would i grow deep within a tree become branches and bark Would my leaves breathe out air for questions to ride on Words escaped from lungs and lips

Am i a string of these words Am i a person place or thing

[lesmumblebees]

No one knows how they got there, how long they called the cold green island their home. It was as if they’d always been there. Maybe descended from the bog and fairy folk themselves. The monstrous gods and hair raising cliffs.

However long they were there, one day they left. The planning would have taken months, years, generations,  but one day, one singular, ordinary day, was the last day they would touch the green isle. The moment they stepped onto the ramp leading them to the ship, their feet lifted off their home and would never touch it again.

They made a home for themselves. A new one, on land of gold instead of green.  Land locked and dry, the furthest thing from their wet island. Soon their neighbors couldn’t remember how they got there, how long they called the flat yellows fields their home.

But one day, like a day long ago, they left. Heading west again as if they were the sun, chasing the horizon, looking for a place to set. It’s unclear how they left, by wagon wheels or tired feet, but they did leave.  Always west.

Their new home brought them back to the sea. Morning mists that reminded them of an island they’d never known. Golden coastlines and green hills, sun that burnt their skin but warmed their souls. They grew there like grape vines in the valleys, strawberries by the lagoon. Soon they had to wonder how they got there, how long they called this eternal summer home.

Generations were raised on rocky beaches, in the shade of trees that their little green island wouldn’t recognize.

But one day, as they always do, they left.

Always west like the sun, looking for a place to set.

[lesmumblebees]

I only saw him for a moment, the man on the bicycle. it was the last time i remember being still, being quiet the people and streets around me throb with the same noise as before it was my mind that got busier, crowded, hazy so much so that i forgot to write about him, the man on the bicycle

i was sitting by a window, overlooking a lake that sat at the base of a volcano, i had traveled by plane and train and cable car to sit here and simply be, something i haven’t done since

the man passed by the window just long enough for my mind to register what he was yes, he was a man on a bicycle, but more remarkably, he was a man on a bicycle with an owl resting on his shoulder. was he my white rabbit? had i followed him would i have found some meaning in the japanese pine trees surrounding me? would i have woken up from a deep sleep to find it all a dream?

i often think of this man and his owl when my mind starts to quiet the thoughts in my head wade like the tide just long enough for me see him passing by the window again only to have a wave sweep him away and im drawn back to the present, where i dont have the time or strength to bring back the lake, the man, the bicycle, and his owl. 

as always, i will only watch his flash past and wonder what would have been had i followed.

[lesmumblebees]

I am a Californian that loves New York. There are days when I feel this is true more than others, and today all I can think of is the west coast.

I’m in love with the grid system, even more in love with the curvy streets down south that break from the grid. The tumultuous weather, the crowds, the coldness and speed of it all. New York brings out the best of me, and challenges me every day.

But my soul will always be the grey blue of the Pacific, scented with torrey pines and fennel, glowing with sunsets over sand cliffs. I am eucalyptus, I am orange peel, I am golden poppy. 

I long for the autumn leaves, the ancient oaks, in Central Park. But my true place is beneath the chili pepper trees, under the constant sunshine.

I love you, New York, but my heart will always be in California.

[lesmumblebees]

musicians often say they dont know where music comes from

that they fear one day the tap will simply run dry

no more music will come out of thin air, into their minds, and out onto paper, through speakers, back into space.

but i found the source of my words, of the things i like to collect here

there’s an old apartment in my neighborhood, placed there like a forgotten though, wedged between two other buildings

its there where the leaking air conditioners nearly touch, where wires cross and tangle, where sunlight cant ever quite make it to the ground below, leaving the concrete cold and damp.

i was walking on a late saturday afternoon and passed this little corner of the world, and i felt so many stories fill my head without warning. i found the tap. the tap found me.

it’s either there or the bottom of a coffee cup.

[lesmumblebees]

it was when she opened her mouth that it came tumbling out

all the words on the tip of her tongue

the name of the train that goes straight up a mountain, the title of the melody trapped in her head two summers ago

the word to describe how she feels when the light is just right, 

she swallowed that one right away, some things are best left without a name

[lesmumblebees]

they come to me when im on the edge of sleep

the first lines to tall tales, to stories, to secrets, that i’ve been meaning to tell you.

they think i’ll forget them, and i usually do

until a cold night in winter, when i created the machine

it would catch them, just as they come crawling into my thoughts, just as im slipping into a dream.

i’d put them in jars for later, when i was ready to put pen to a paper

only to find them shriveled and dry when i returned

could it be that some stories aren’t meant to be told? some dreams are meant to be chased and never caught?

[lesmumblebees]

the day i met melancholy i was wearing a blue dress

though he’ll tell you i was in black from head to toe

he stays up until 4 am just to feel that special sadness that washes over you just before sunrise

he only reads books by authors dead and gone

he doesnt care much for the sky or the weather

but he makes me laugh, and he keeps me warm

gentle melancholy, staying awake for his 4am sadness.

[lesmumblebees]

tonight i almost forgot the moon

i was looking down the trail of neon that lines my road, every road here, and paused to notice the sky. it was a fuzzy grey, the opposite of the street below.

that’s when i saw it, the full moon. well, almost full.

it was full yesterday, but it was still huge. 

i could see a small slice out of it, but i wondered if i was really seeing this, or my brain was just making me think a bit was a sliver missing because i knew it wasnt completely full.

my arms held a bag of tangerines and a book i’d just devoured half of.

the book raised the question of whether the self is singular or plural. if its really just you in there, who are you talking to?

who is that voice going on about forgotten full moons?

well, almost full.

[lesmumblebees]

i know she hadn’t meant to, she was just taking off her jacket in a crowded train but she touched my knees

the knees that i ripped open in amy’s backyard eleven novembers ago the knees that i sat on every night at dinner in japan tennis practice was a constant shouting of “bend your knees” rug burns and razor cuts,  mine never touch the airplane seat in front of me

i had absolutely no say in what shape or color they are all of that was decided for me

and she could just knock her arm into them

we are very small, aren’t we

[lesmumblebees]

walking through the city with a homesick friend when we parted i made friends with a doorman three floors and two hallways later i get introduced to an elegant italian man whose first words to me are ‘would you run and get me un café?’ off i go, running through the rain to get the odd man a baguette and a black coffee

now i am sitting in a haunted recording studio in carnegie hall while the italian tells me stories of his dear friend miguel from ecuador who runs marathons

[lesmumblebees]

your unopened books, unopened doors they were screaming at you, your head was pounding the sun shot through the mini blinds, broken of course but they could wait do you remember how to tie your laces? out of the apartment, was this hallway always carpeted? the strand, safe you were convinced the best books were kept on the top shelves, or were you just excited to use the ladder? she only looked at the spines at eye level, she didn’t like authors with names at the beginning of the alphabet you didnt stand a chance forward a week, she’s in the photography section sitting on the ground, black and white fold outs surround her paris, hong kong, central park all the places she wants to go, all the places you want to go with her she looks up, you were standing there too long am i smiling? “where are the biographies?” you knew where they were, you needed to hear the voice “down the stairs”, it sounded just as you had hoped maybe her mother sang jazz, her father smoked a pipe her umbrella was red she hadn’t bought anything she thanked the man at the coat check enthusiastically will this happen everyday? you began to associate union square with the book store girl you were the inspiration for every street performer’s song the empty bench was waiting for the two of you she liked cream in her coffee you like sugar she wanted to take italian classes and you wanted to marry her in italy you started leaving postcards in her favorite books she never spent a penny, only her afternoons it was one of those new york summer days when no matter how dire the situation, you would not go to the basement no matter how many fans the strand set up, you would be fighting for every breath down there you had to save her she headed for the stairs, does she know how dangerous that is? she had already descended by the time you were able to react looking down the stairwell you could feel the humidity rising from the lowest floor you could smell the biographies and old cassette tapes roasting from the summer heat she was too delicate, she cant handle it, probably headed for the foreign language section, words aren’t worth it you take a deep breath and tackle the stairs, fifteen of them seperating you from heat stroke and suffocation reaching the bottom a miracle occurs she’s heading up the stairs dictionary wedged under her arm ‘ciao’ she smiles as she ascends is this relief? 'ciao’

[lesmumblebees]

i want to be your bookshelf

a place to store your words, pages of them

stories from here and there, then and now

if you want me to, i’ll just sit there, shelves ready to give or take

there for you when you need an escape

offering romance, adventure, revenge

things to make you think and wonder, to open more doors

you could get busy with life and not have a need for me anymore

but could you just let me sit there with you, collecting dust in your living room?

i’m sure i wouldnt mind

[lesmumblebees]

they’re bothersome, always dragging behind her and making handshakes or hugs an odd sight to behold,

simple things like doorknobs and house keys were no longer her friends and by the time her mug reaches her mouth the tea has grown cold,

her jackets and long sleeves had to be given away and she gave up on the idea of ever holding his hand

but when she sat in the passenger seat and raised them above her head, her arms as long bridges, she knew it was all worth it

being able to touch the trees, skim the windows of skyscrapers, fingertips brushing the canopy, it made up for all the hardships that comes along with her extraordinary limbs

[lesmumblebees]

looking back everything was connected

that fateful saturday in march, cloud cover in the sky and my head

i would like to say i can pinpoint the exact moment of change

but perhaps it happened long before i woke up

on being shaken

one of the most silent days of summer, july perhaps

i hadn’t spoken a word, maybe a few but only when it was necessary

i was facing an army of soldiers older than anyone i have ever, and will ever meet

they had survived the test of time

i often wonder if they feel anger or fear when being taken from their original site, their home for a thousand or so years

protecting the emperor could not be an easy feat when one is a world away

it was a temporary building, so impermanent that the irony of what it was sheltering was unbearable

the world shook as i was talking to the archer, posed and ready to fire his arrows, yet in no way did he look unfriendly

the room lurched twice, not just the floors or the people but the entire room

the walls leaned in and the soldiers began to tremble

more irony, our earthquake occurred fifty-nine days after the ground under Sichuan rumbled

something in those few minutes of uncertainty, the realization that the earth was much larger than i was

the walls around me threatening collapse, it was as though a switch had been flicked on

i was a mess,

malls in san francisco, elevators, buses, and loud noises

never bothering me before that summer day, now sent my heart into a frenzy, a tightening in my chest

the anxiety i felt still amazes me

god seemed to enjoy this change in me, playing on it whenever he could

sending Houston thunderstorms when i was escaping texas via GB International

holding elevators doors closed for a second too long, just enough to make one question if they were getting out alive

he never seems to forget his sense of humor

the unshakable, again with the irony, fear of shaking, any unplanned form of movement

sent me shivers and cold sweat, getting off of planes sore from never relaxing my muscles

nowhere felt completely safe, ‘solid ground’ had betrayed me, how can i trust anything when the very soil i walk on has proved itself to be so unpredictable and temperamental

the fear followed me for years, until one of the loudest nights of winter

on contemplating death,

to die in a symphony hall where key changes and three-four time has brought thousands to their feet, eyes filled with tears

to be on the balcony that collapses as the final measure is being played

the noise would certainly be an astonishing thing

the combination of the bass and our voices and, such stark contrast to my previous experience at Copley,

(calling it ‘more alive’ would be inaccurate, it was simply a different kind of alive, alive with heartbreak and hope)

the hundreds of bodies dancing to the same words that hold different meanings for each of them,

made the mezzanine move in such an alien motion, resembling flights through Houston thunderstorms

but how could we bring such a structure down with all of us being filled with such a feeling of lightness

any ounce of weight we felt, anything that could be holding us down was released in a cry,

no specific words, just a long noise to be swallowed up by the amplifiers and the second verse, the weight of others

it was in those short moments where death seemed quite possible that my discomfort from movement escaped me

the work of the earthquake was undone, the seed of fear was arraché, similar to a baobab on l'astéroïde B 612

the ground beneath me was shaking but any sense of dread, any tightening of my chest, never materialized

i wish i could explain the feeling that occurs when death is so near in a moment so sweet

in a moment like that time takes shape, a solid form almost visible, not threatening but not exactly welcome either

everyone knew the words to the second song of the encore, the single acoustic guitar allowed our voices to fill the venue, its solidity competing with that of time

the entire venue was breathing at the same time, inhaling just enough to fuel the next verse, to finish the chorus

it was then that the thought crossed my mind

‘if this balcony collapsed, just before the encore ended,

the lightest moment of the night, wouldn’t that be the most beautiful way to die?’

on connections,

it is because of that night that i returned home from the library that saturday morning with a pile of books, all written by authors whose last names i couldn’t pronounce with confidence

three-quarters finished with my tea i heard a bird call and a rustle of wings from my fireplace

this sparked an idea of a story, now forgotten, and caused me to stumble upstairs for the laptop to write it down

as i retook my seat in the living room what remained of my tea spilt over my pale legs and carmel sofa

the lukewarm water managed to erase the story from my mind, only to replace it with an image of a terra-cotta soldier,

a long way from home

[lesmumblebees]

i am nearly certain it was the same love song,

amor, amour, amore

both times i was on a train, different time zones, different cities, once very much alone, the other, very much alone

both times it was tired old men and tired old instruments, accordions

whether it is a parisian night in a metro car, or below the streets of new york, i feel a tug, an itch i can’t scratch

i am homesick for a feeling i havent felt, homesick for places i’ve never seen

the following day i sat in a cloud for two hours and walked through water

my grip on reality is nonexistent, i have let it go, no, i have thrown it away

as far as i could

and while we’re on the topic of immortality,

i have never fallen in love but my ears are always humming

[lesmumblebees]

i am appropriately named, i carry things

bags, stories, heavy eyelids

i have no idea what state we are in, the license plates dont help

i have been staring out this window for hours and cant even guess

it is dark and i forgot how much i missed the stars, how much of a silhouette i am

je veux rester ici, dans ce moment, si vous n'avez pas l'espirt

i measure my time in airplane hours and album lengths

six hours in the air to home, oh inverted world to downtown

i still cant sleep four hours straight, i feel like there is some significance there but for now bright eyes and oberst keep me company

i cant seem to make the effort to talk to people who arent in my time zone and i fear that i am becoming too attached to these trees

by the way, no matter where i go, i feel like i am home