I sit on the couch staring at my window
Like a camera lens set at a very low aperture
The neighbor’s house across looks blurred
There on the rails of the aluminum frame
I find spiderwebs that I once thought of cleaning
And a few corpses of dead flies in the process of turning into dust
I am told they will resurrect too someday

Above this rail I see a mosquito net panel
Each square centimeter holds a thin layer of dirt
Not the pride of my living room
But to the photographer in me
A collection of micro art now

As a car enters my driveway
I put away the duster from my hand
And open the door for my old man

I forget once again
To clean those spiderwebs and corpses.

-Jose Valle

I built a Greek column
A Tuscan column to be precise
It's about three floors in height

I used materials I didn't know I owned
Shimmering and glistening small white oval pebbles
Flat and fat ones
Sand, best of its kind
Limestone with all its magical properties
And Nautilus shells from the beaches of Callao.

I wish I have built it for looks only
But I did it for me
It fits well between my neck and naval line
For when my earthquakes threaten my core

A Winter of Sleep
 
Like a standing-by tribe of leafless birch trees,
My solitude remains entrenched on this Idaho frozen land.
This alluring land of uncompromising sinuos snowed hills.
My bed to rest.
The unyielding beauty of big sapphire blue skies.
A solid promise for hope to come. 
But I remain still. 
Deep sleep sounds so nice. 
 
Yes, in this land I hibernate in unseen caves of my own carved memories.
Yet, my faithful sun always shines. 
A reminder of his eternal promise.
To daily rise.
To daily shine.
To daily warm. 
 
Until then, my wintered solitude remains still.
Like birch trees waiting for the golden leaves to come,
I wait.
I’m not afraid.
I remain still.
Until then, deep sleep sounds do nice.

Words.
Elusive like wild mustangs.
Without a beginning or an end.
Keeper of my truth.

Words.
Nomads of ****** lands.
I sit on them.
I feel their galloping rhythm.

Words.
Still.
My soul translates.
A new day.

My fallen heart
Pantheon of my supreme devotions
Columns of my fortitude
Where is my stance?!

A fist of wrath ripped through the floor where my certainty stood once
The rugged fingers of my aptitude
Squeezed the mass of my inspiration
Dismembered poems float the river of no return
But in my quiet disposition
I write again

Jose Valle