TALKING TO FISH
They do not know what water is.
They think the world is dancing
Constantly. Songs are ecstasy as they
Enter their bodies completely. They do
Not need ears to hear them.
We seldom see them in trees,
But there they are, thousands of them,
Decorations of the Amazon jungle
In flood. Leaves are the souls
Of fish, sculptures of fish
Never previously seen. Here
In the high jungle they become gems,
Tales of the elders. fish.
We used to walk along the edges of the smaller lakes in the summer. The crappie and small perch would rise in the evening and jump at flies or gulp bugs that fell into the water. They would make concentric circles on the surface of the water, soft splashes in the twilight. It was a language. We had no idea what the fish were saying but they were saying. Maybe it was about the heat or the rain coming the next day or what they had seen beneath the surface. All those years later without a word yet so much of blood and its salt, reeds and thin lines trolled through the water, the quiet that came from eyes that never close, from pressure on lateral lines, from talking on and on to fish.
Summer breaks its face on my arm.
I can’t remember how your mouth
Felt on mine. How your hand was
When I put my lips on your fingertips.
My heart dances on my spine, fooling
Me into believing that love has a name
That sounds like yours but ends before
I can reach pit and touch your hips,
Your lips, it, as they said, trips me
Past the dream house built of pale
Moonlight and forever and a day.
Up among the concordance of moon,
Sun and our loving, bop style in mouth
Jazz explaining to each other from song
To song how wild this thing is, wind,
The keys ripping past; candles made of
Fireflies and mission bells, tearing
Sheets of song into tiny pieces, Oh yes how
And howl, spurl myself dingingly, plutridly
Fornicoulated, intensely exploding in charcoal
Mouth bar-b-que laughing. There is
No further town we can be found in.
Every stop on your skin unveils the
Brisk night, irresponsible, tales told
By the blind about how the hands
Know the name, the name of all the rains,
Their particular voice, their night thoughts,
On sidewalks, opened at last, no streetlights,
No mouth of sing following. I touch
Your crazy traffic and burn acetylene yellow,
Pure green. Aircraft land in the middle of summer.
My skin stretches, explodes and contains all
The mysterious rainbows from which we reconstruct
The language of all the endless nights of our youth.
Nobody has ever asked me to write anything in this blog so I guess I'll wait for awhile. Been thinking of it however.
I would say that it a good place to listen some excellent reporting is by checking out Daniel Alercon on the publishing business in Peru. UCD had him speak at Berkeley recently. Very good stuff.