The ocean caught a glimpse of our past: love roots starting and ending in us.
In the distance, a white sail: the giant wing of a wounded albatross.
Red, blue, yellow giving to gold: the vastness of dead sands.
An insidious wave disturbed the effigy of loss.
the sea throws fishing nets into the sky
the blood of stars drops on a lonely shore
ships fantasize under the reddish voice of night
fingers of the truth pulsate inside the wombs of underwater weeds
I comb my hair with dreams of roses and of salt
you smoke cigars…
please continue reading here
My Dear Readers,
Below please find the text of the email that I received from Spillwords Press. Voting for June Publication of the Month is now open. You do not need a Spillwords account to vote. You can vote with your twitter of FB account.
We want to congratulate you all, as your pieces have been nominated due to Popular Demand for Publication of The Month of June!
Voting will cease on 6/29 upon where soon after we will reveal the winner.
Here are the nominated pieces:
– Seduction – Gabriela M
– In Silence – Luzviminda G. Rivera
– A Gathering Of Minds – Anne G.
– Beyonce – Marla Lacherza Bracco
– Amigas – Jose A. Gomez
– Rodina-mat Zavyot! – Olja Dobric
– Nothing Up My Sleeve – Shawn M. Klimek
– Pages Torn Out – Prikcab (Ian Perlman)
– The Heart Of The Wind – David Dephy
– Take Me To… – Allen Baswell
– Uncertainty – Aishwariya Laxmi
– Unbound Ties – Mary Ellen Gambutti
Good luck to all!
trees whisper, cries of cloudy skies
inaudible, unseen, you, Astraea,
you push me on a long-forgotten trail
continue reading here
I am grateful to the Spillwords team for giving me the opportunity to share more about me.
“...most fascinatingly America is a country of dreamers. We are all dreamers...”
“..I have very few moments when I get stuck creatively…”
You can read my author interview here.
Love and hugs to everyone.
image: Billion Photos; Shutterstock; [link]
“This city lost its compass, I am telling you, Miguel. Bones. This city is filled with bones. Some alive, some dead, some on life support, some better looking than others. Even the sea looks ossified like an humongous bone condemned to carry the sky on its head forever and ever, amen. I am getting tired of so many aching bones. Articulations that don’t work anymore. Well, apparently, some still crack, and then so many perforated veins in which the blood flows in the wrong direction. Truth be told only God knows what the right direction is anymore. And the cemeteries: there are so many cemeteries. And of course, that brings me back to bones. Even my blouse has the color of bones, and even the roses that Angelo brought me the other night looked suspiciously like bones. And look at the walls of this restaurant!”
The waiter interrupts me.
“Would señorita like some fish tonight?”
“Does it have any bones?”
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
We were neither good nor bad. Those are words invented by us, poor biped beings, to chronicle our actions.
In retrospect, I think we resided in the unknown, in the fuzzy space situated at the core of that city: a city born from some kind of inexplicable cosmic irony.
excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
image: YuriyZhuravov; Shutterstock; [link]
“His story was tragic.
Yet he was too shallow to live his own tragedy, and too weak to escape it.
It occurred to me that he has woven a web of lies in which he lived like a curious spider lacking his own body.
Night and day crawling, spastic legs weaving lies, suffocating anybody who dared to approach him. Empty, in the middle of his own cobweb, contorting his legs, existing somewhere between heaven and earth in a demotic world not created by God, but by a relapsed and dark demiurge.
Angelo, are you still listening to me?”
“Who dares not, Clara?”
excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers.
image: conrado; Shutterstock; [link]
Meadows where trees sleep, and rivers stretch like cats.
Fairies dance tarantella in the air.
Your purple lips reflect the shadows of the women you will love.
Your eyes as thirsty as the surface of the moon.
image: Fesus Robert; Shutterstock; [link]
Clocks drip languor.
White drapes undulate in the breeze of a faraway sea.
The fragrance of oranges blossoms in my hair.
Mysteries of the blue waters exude from your salty skin.
Moorish patterns engrave themselves onto my thighs.
Teardrops scent the air.
Our afternoons: never born, never allowed to die.
image: nito; Shutterstock; [link]