The Move South

THE MOVE SOUTH

“No trip is too strange to satirize, friend,
Nor realtor, so smooth to care about”.
That´s what he said, our cryptic bus driver
And his toothless comedienne wife after that church service
On Sunday, when the kisses blew from the swinging fans
And the air was heavy with more secular hopes.
The move went well, it seems.

Dark circles rimmed my eyes, then,
A new stranger to this land of crack, morphine Jesus,
And a gnawing sense of Jonah being swallowed
After a long drive, after an off the cuff decision.
I stepped into the sun that first morning dazed, lost in thought
And later, almost hit the paper boy in my truck,
Who cursed like a sailor as he rode away that fateful morning.

Death is easy. Reality is hard. (I know nothing about comedy.)

The metaphysics of place are an unreadable Bible
Tucked under some fuchsia or broad mango grove
During the summer months when
Sweat and sin are the lotions we lather with wishfully
While snakes slither under crackling leaves.

But there is something here, for sure.
A crass feeling of wakefulness, aligned with
The crush of knowledge, a Homer-ized “Doh!” when contemplating
The past which has never left, a meaningless present, and
A future too dimly lit to see, too bright to ignore.
Home is where a heart is, and the jury is out today
Contemplating mine, over lunch at the corner café.
With grits.

no death works alone

no death works alone

no death works alone
having plenty
of company:
the dying birds
dying bees
dying species in
dying lands
and dying people
around this
dying planet
and now
the death
of hope looms so large
we lower our heads
and pray for death
to relieve us
of the fear of
what comes next:
death.

Hard Truths About Certainty

HARD TRUTHS ABOUT CERTAINTY

It’s never so easy to take that plunge,
To land on some comfortable space
With all pieces closing in,
And find oneself ready, at peace, or, by will,
A challenger to the system who still stands upright.

It was never easy.

One picks the meal, Catholic, Buddhist, Muslim, Pagan, etc.,
But the salads differ, and feta works sometimes,
But so do blueberries, clementines, or dates.
Certainly still pulls:
Some dream of the perfect choice
Which closes off doubt’s leering eyes.
Sharing this with others helps.
This seems right – there are many spaces where
Comfort is had in the company
Of strangers engaged in the same pursuit:
Community, or sangha, for example.
The task though, is always individual.

Some come glassy-eyed over Emptiness or Rinpoches,
Pilgrimages or penance.
Some hold Jesus’ hands so tightly His wounds reopen
And, washed in that sacrificial blood,
Personal tears pale by comparison and it all becomes bearable.
(I do not stand there, for sure.)
In awe I wish happy birthday to the flimsiest of friends
As their entering my life is so improbable and,
Entering Life at all, so unique,
I have to wish them the very best
From inside this encircling bulwark against insanity we call reality.
To yearn for faith, for clarity, to seek out depth and reason while
Witnessing, (and emitting) chaos and wonder, really, how can that be done?
Happy birthday, people…this seems enough.

In Ástjörn, past the lupine bracketed path, near the
Old bridge, a single birch tree leans at the end of a small rise.
During those short hikes, it has never said a word to me
Holding, instead, all my questions as I stood quietly,
A lone dark figure on a well-trod path,
Speaking to no one in particular,
Pondering great questions of universal significance,
Meant only for one man, but offered to that bushy oracle who
Witnesses in mute dignity, its very life the testament
That questions come and go,
But roots need water and sun, and men,
Someone to talk to.

On Learning

ON LEARNING

Learning is a lead
We swallow slowly,
Absorbing its weight
As our own,
Sinking into self
Until we move away
Transformed, to witness the usual
Paths with colder eyes
And a new found
Slumbering appreciation
Of place.

A Spectacle of Stones

A Spectacle of Stones

No written warning before,
Nor storied up explanation after,
Would grant the peace.
Solidly in place were
All the absurd projects
Of weak men in helmets
Shielding their minds
From dissenting views.
The plots are always simple,
The execution, complicated
By some kingdom´s spies,
And the obstacles men face
When fighting themselves.
It was a given these projects
Would fail.

In the end, war always does.

The plan, however,
Needed to be operated on
At a level none could foresee
And none could forget.
Every project has its price, though.
Every proposal, a fall.
This time, only the very largest stones
Would stay standing,
Bearing cold, mute witness
For future generations.

 

THE ONE THING

THE ONE THING

When I reached out
Saying “Ramadan Mubarak!”,
The beaming bearded face of Muhammed told me
All I needed to know that day.

When I opened the door
For the burly football player,
He said thanks, surprised.

I saw my hand running over the birch branches
On the walkway to the library
And noticed someone catching me doing that,
Smiling.

We must take the one thing and love it.

It is not dependent on teachings or laws.
Nor does shyness or shame matter.
It is seeing the bright sun on a window,
Or a moment of rain,
That stops you cold.
Putting your finger on that stone,
Kissing it, maybe.
Sing up and hold the sky sometimes.
Kneel and touch your face to the earth
Who cries.

In the face of the Great
And the Hard of this world,
Take the one thing
And love it.

Do it now before you learn to know better.

The Occurrence

 

THE OCCURRENCE

Through the smoky windows of the library
He looked out at the field beyond, situated
Next to the pond where bare-footed girls in summer dresses
Sat next to boys flexing their masculinity.

It was deathly quiet where he stood,
But he could see by  their smiles and the flashes of surprise
And delight to know it was quite noisy out there.
The sun was warm, but today the air was cool inside and
So he shivered as continued walking through
The stacks of books laid like multi-colored
Dominoes, and giggling, imagined himself
Tumbling one down, setting off the chain reaction
Until they circled back to the front desk
Where she-who-never-smiled always sat gloomily
Guarding the tomb-like silence with her enforcer´s evil glee.

He kept searching for that title,
Finally sitting beneath the grey trellis in the grand hall
Where “those” books resided beneath portraits
Of patrons and former deans whose grim faces confirmed
That he was looking in the right spot.

Someone had snuck in
A bottle of wine in and
Placed it in the cramped corner of the darkest shelf
Of his favored section so
He felt even more steadied in the search.

That very morning, as he had poured the milk
Onto the vaguely yellow mass that passed for cereal,
He had confirmed the intention that had bedeviled him for
Weeks, laying out a plan for the ages. Today was the day.

The illiterate would never have understood,
Nor would they that mocked or truly merited mocking
Have guessed that the late summer´s
Occurrence was completely predictable.
He would no longer be an apostrophe to someone´s possessive.
Today he´d rise and confirm the wondrous.
No happenstance, nor coincidental array, but Will.
In the end it was clear:
No dragon had ever worn such a magnificent jewel on it´s head.
Nor had one eaten upperclassmen with such enthusiasm.

No Revolution

NO REVOLUTION

There will be no revolution so long as Netflix remains cheap,
No revolution while the Super Bowl continues,
And the bombs killing kids in Yemen get yawns.
There will be no revolution today,
Or tomorrow, since there is a big sale up the street,
And people are camping out the night before.
There will be no revolution because people are weary
And besides, Game of Thrones is ending
And Avengers: Endgame has taken all my hope quotient for this year.
There will be no revolution while people work 2 jobs
But can´t afford homes in their cities
And the countryside is too poisoned, too addled with meth
To worry about that stuff.
There will be no revolution so long as Teen Vogue has better articles
Than the New York Times.

There will be no revolution that poses for selfies.
There will be no revolution with kitten pictures.
There will be no revolution on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday as those are “holy” days.
There will be no revolution on Mondays because that would be asking too much.
There will be no revolution on Wednesdays because that´s hump day and people are
Getting excited for the weekend.
There will be no revolution while the Earth cooks since
If the “earth dying is not inspiration enough”
We´re fucked anyway.

There will be no revolution since guillotine makers are out of fashion
And nobody is angry enough to hold hands.
There will be no revolution now since Biden jumped in the race
And will probably take the word with him
Leaving Bernie fuming.
There will be no revolution because paying bills takes more of our time than reading.
There will be no revolution because Coachella with Bey is more riveting than
Talking to our neighbors.
There will be no revolution because no one has neighbors anymore.

There will be no revolution because the stars aren´t aligned for it.
There will be no revolution because Fox can´t say the word.
There will be no revolution at night because most people are too tired to drive.
There will be no revolution at noon because the days are getting hotter.
There will be no revolution since apparently “America is great again.”
There will be no revolution since no one saw the preview or billboards
Or heard anything on their morning drive to work.
There will be no revolution because the pamphlets aren’t printed in Spanish.
There will be no revolution while our guns are turned on each other.
There will be no revolution since “they” have bigger guns.
There will be no revolution since getting hurt would be too expensive
And my co-pay doesn´t cover “wounds inflicted in liberation struggles. “

There will be no revolution since many are too busy looking for 80% work.
There will be no revolution once we get 15$ an hour.
There will be no revolution since the rich tell us there is no need for one.
There will be no revolution because the economy is booming.
There will be no revolution since the only boom in our economy
Are bomb makers and bunker builders.

There will be no revolution since Jesus is coming anyway so it won´t matter.
There will be no revolution on Christmas, Hanukah, Eid or any other big holiday
Since people will be buying bullet-proof vests and hiring security
So they can pray safely to a compassionate God
To please, take away the need for a revolution.

José M. Tirado is a Puertorican poet, Buddhist priest and political writer living in Hafnarfjorður, Iceland, known for its elves, “hidden people” and lava fields. His articles and poetry have been featured in CounterPunch, Cyrano´s Journal, The Galway Review, Dissident Voice, La Respuesta, Op-Ed News, among others. He can be reached at tirado.jm@gmail.com.

The Price of Fruit

THE PRICE OF FRUIT

We saw the earth quiet, restful even,
Enjoying the fruit of our pleasure:
Taking down laundry,
Washing dishes together,
Laughing under waterfalls,
Playing in the nude.
Creation was fine
And we were happy.

If that serpentine salesman had told us
The admonition about food was serious
We might have made faces, but
We still wouldn´t have believed him.
Eviction, though, was a high price
For love,
And the clay roads
Led far away from our little garden,
And to hollow places
Where fruit prices are at least
Clearly labelled.

A Bunch of Fragments Spinning

A BUNCH OF FRAGMENTS SPINNING

I don´t remember
Before I first remembered,
But all the space
My knowing ever
Touched has,
Since that very first sight, or experience,
Seemed like some eternal dance
In a sea of time,
And “I”, a fragmentary collection,
Enjoying the spins.