šipak

 

we ate apples

the moon wet above the mountain

singing magnetic fields’ songs

kissed (alive) atop an anthill

 

 

 

 

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An Average Night in Honduras

 

 

 

I offer you music in two different spirits. The first is that of rejoicing, of proclamation – an expression of joy or gratitude – an outpouring. The second is that of invocation – a plea and a call to arms, a desire for the magic of the song to seep into my being and feed me.

This is thrown out in the second spirit.

Cyclic Swim

 

 

In recent times I have been captive of three infinities.

The first was a scooter ride along the Vietnamese coastline. A mesmeric dutch girl behind me, shivering to the point of convulsion. Sheets of needle-sharp rain in our eyes. Collaborative humor amidst genuine suffering. Slender tunnels so filled with wind and freighters that emerging without injury seemed implausible.

The second, the bus from Podgorica, Albania to Athens, Greece. The Albanian couple, laughing boisterously and smiling unabashedly, feeding me small handfuls of dried fruit. The cumulative weight of the long absence of conversation I could cognize. Euphoric fatigue, inescapable and intimate, pumping through my veins with as much urgency as was present at our first acquaintance.

The third, a moonlit hike in the Jemez Mountains. Cascading hot-springs many miles from civilization beneath a dome of cliff and stars. A complete disrobing. Boots holding our flesh aloft atop a wide road until the moonlight washing our skin turned sharp, and our thirst faded into the forest alive around us. Finding the car adrift in its own glass.