the magnolia was a bit of a *******
(as far as trees can be *******)
and like very many other things—
like japanese candy from the Fugi Mart in Greenwich
                                      (across from the McDonald’s and next to
                                             the music shop where I got my viola)
and like pokemon cards and nintendo gaming systems
and like Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” on a pink CD in a Hello Kitty radio
—that ******* of a magnolia was a distinctive taste
of the years I spent growing up in my house at the end of Wyndover Lane.

the ******* thing was almost perpetually in bloom.

it barged into both spring and autumn
(it didn’t give a **** about timing)
those pink and white spongy petals padding the ground
and at first you think it’s ******* beautiful
sitting in the crook of the trunk where it split into
                                                                two large
                                                       separate branches
tilting your chin back to catch a glimpse of blue between fat blossoms

then the petals start rotting
water-retentive little *******
and you can’t sweep ‘em away because they stick to the patio
brown clumps slipping under rubber soles
my dad lets loose a string of curses
and the magnolia shakes with laughter

I tried pressing the petals in a notebook once
while I was in that naturalist phase it seems all little girls go through
when you make fairy houses out of bark in the backyard
and put flowers between the pages of books because it feels
oh-so-much-more significant
than picking a pretty thing and showing it to mom

but the magnolia seeped through my spiral ring
and when I opened it up a month later they were dry tan papery things
not at all velveteen and rosy
and there were garish pink bloodstains all through the ten pages
on either side
magnolias don’t preserve well
except, honestly they do don’t they

then of course there’s that childhood tragedy that everyone has
when your dog got hit by some soccer mom’s suburban
or your teddy bear was lost in an airport
or maybe you just liked to cry because some things
were just really worth the tears at the time

but when I came home and found out they cut down my ******* ******* of a magnolia

I bawled

there wasn’t
even
a
stump.

.

~sweet cherry blossom

losing their power to cling

paints an old man's sky-


a pink path softly
lays at the foot of Mt. Fugi,
as a young girl collects withering flowers-

in a brown wicker basket.

                            ~

Soft clouds slide up one side of Fugi,
and then they slide down the other.

Koi leap through a thin veil of petals-

and water.

Cool rivers winding like time...~













.

.  



spring Fugi wind storm
cherry blossom explosion
renders the lamb pink






.

Celebro o medo através da poesia
O medo, não do mundo para o qual fugi,
Mas do inevitável retorno àquele que deixei para trás.
Celebro a despedida a Lisboa,
Menina e moça dos meus olhos,
De juventude esvaída.
Outrora casa e ser e essência
Perdeu a cidade a capacidade de amar
E de acolher amantes na sua calçada gasta
E assim, perdi eu a capacidade de a sentir um lar.
Desprendo-me, feroz, do seu abraço
Choro só a beleza de não lá ser mais
E aprendo (ou tento) amar outras fachadas.
Tudo o que em si importava -
o calor dos gestos, a poesia -
Morreu em mim.
Fiz do meu berço uma cidade vazia.

Possuído por uma raiva febril segui para lá do abismo maldizendo todo o ser que um dia me fez sofrer.
Perdi a fé no homem, perdi a fé no Deus e entreguei todos os meus sonhos nas mãos da megera e fugi para lá dos meus sonhos.
Perdi a fé nas orações do homem, nas acções do homem e condenei ao fracasso cada passo desmedido e tresloucado.
Odiei.
Odiei cada ser que outrora conheci.
Fui traído.
Condenei os “amigos” que outrora possui.
Desisti de procurar a razão.
Desacreditei na amizade . . .
Desacreditei no amor . . .
E desisti!
Será loucura odiar a humanidade só porque uma donzela não dançou a valsa da vida contigo?

Iubirea e pericol mare
Când crezi că e din depărtare.

E pericol şi mai mult
Când cauți printr-un alt pierdut.

E bomba cu ceas sau mină
Când îi spui de un’ să vină

Nu fugi, nu aștepta,
Nu-i da formă, n-o filtra,
Nu te grăbi sau speria
Creeaz-o și este a ta.

_M>