el costo de la vida (the cost of life)

this year that will end tomorrow ....

witnesses

inflation continuing its rise above economic growth

49 deaths during the elections

i read:

societies of the past teach

we can disappear

i live
al final de este viaje
en la vida.


december 2007

choices

there is an orange crate set on its side, to the right of the gate. it arrived mysteriously one day. nobody in the house seems to know where it came from. then one day there is an empty bags of chips, predominately orange, set on top of the orange crate. before the arrival of the bag, i thought about taking in the crate with no owner and putting it to use, gather all loose items in the patio, place them inside and say that they all now have a place, a home. but since the arrival of the orange bag, my curiosity urges me to wait and watch the evolution of a pile of discarded items right in front of our new wooden fence, built to protect us from the powdered milk eating cows.

another orange item made its way to our yard yesterday when luis dropped by to pour bacteria down our toilet. as he left and waved good-bye he took a step back and said, "oh, i´m just going to leave this here" as he threw the orange plastic liter between the tree and the kitchen. i nodded and laughed to myself, a witness to the placing of random items in random places.

i thought about moving the orange liter and adding it to the orange altar, but that would be against the rules, too much participation. i must maintain my observer status.

but i must admit, i break the rules. i too have left something not in its place. and i don´t plan on moving it, not just yet.

the once white sheets hanging on the clothes line over by pancho's feeding box, i once washed them, hung them to dry, and never redeemed them. i decided i wasn't going to use them and yet i never moved them into the room in the corner where all unwanted items go.

one of the once white sheets has fallen and is slowly becoming camouflaged in the mud. the other that still hangs on is dank and hairy from the passing of cows and horse.

i also admit, that i don't see them daily, even though they are there to see when i open my door every morning. but when i do take notice, i sometimes feel that mischievous thrill knowing that i too can leave my mark. i too can be subversive.

other times they are a reminder that i am not pure. i am that soiled sheet, hung and fallen. it is a reminder that i could do something, but i choose not to.

momentary preferences

there are moments
i prefer
air
to thought;
a deep breath
a slow release
to the order
of clutter

estos días

me he despertado
despues de mi alarma.
he dormido
antes de los demás.
la lluvia
crea más lodo,
y
no hay control
sobre
la caida.

untitled

i don´t know
how
to stand.
the current
is
strong;
yet,
i hope to rise
with out
a concave chest.

after lunch

after lunch

walking up the path
i hear myself shriek
high
and girly;
i cover my mouth.
they laugh.
then,
i register:
white and black
wiry haired
possum
spread flat
on the stoop.
mouth agape,
fierce teeth
ooze blood.

then,
hit over the head, one more time.

yet, still squirming
the tail,
a whip lashing.
with slow,
curvy twists
in the hips,
it heaves
up
and
down.

tiene mucha vida,
says mayra.
and i wonder,
who will say that
about me.