Poesia

Obsessed, inside her tenuous vignette,

longing like a child dressed in a one-piece

suit; my thoughts were like twisted violets.

I clung to her cameos like pivots

for days but was time-stopped—in a vision

she came and went, drawing wry pirouettes.

I would dream of clownfish, mid-pirouette,

and wake up dressed in cold. Adorned, vignette-

like and shallow, I searched for a vision

in someone who was already a piece

on another board—a fickle pivot

to trust, burning like ultraviolet.

With fervor I’d denounce the violet,

but just as passionately pirouette

back for her planned kiss, firm on the pivot.

From guiltless words she painted vignetted

lies, patient and poignant ones, surely piece-

meal, only to further stretch the vision—

like a fish impaled by hope. A vision

of her last words, unblemished violets,

formed a somber haze as I tried to piece

my spine together, dreading pirouettes.

How far I’d wander into a vignette

of her design to fall prey to pivot—

since the addiction is in the pivot,

the twist that replaces daily visions

with a sugar pill (she was vignetting

her dear lies like photographed violets).

In the garden practicing pirouettes

at the corner, she would not say her piece.

With such silence I drowned, needing to piece

logic and feeling, to at last pivot

my thoughts the right way round. Yet pirouette

she would, and I again took to visions

to fill the appetite-less violet

days that ensued, her smiles cut from vignettes.

Though she writes vignettes, I search for a piece

of peace far from her violet pivot,

having missed more visions than pirouettes.

 —starky morillo

Poesia

A chaise strung by a dream,

two of them float upstream tonight;

digging their souls for might

& space to hold them tight. Sideways,

the window shoots day rays,

radiates sleepy ways of life;

though she is not his wife,

they could swiftly find strife, but let

go instead, rather get

off the short-ending bet and see.

There stood the boy, incandescent and young,

thinking crooked things would again turn straight,

knowing the pain merely weighed down his tongue.

His thinking was his fault, by dreams he hung—

where the rest would rush, he could only wait:

there stood the boy, incandescent and young.

Every star he pegged with a wish and sung,

(not to be morose with uncertain fate),

knowing the pain merely weighed down his tongue.

Harsh thoughts of mutiny from nowhere sprung

on days where he struggled to clear his plate;

there stood the boy, incandescent and young.

Through his ears the many 2AMs rung

but he would often run through the front gate,

knowing the pain merely weighed down his tongue.

The vestige of withheld words filled a lung,

unproductive and always far too late—

there stood the boy, incandescent and young,

knowing the pain merely weighed down his tongue.

—starky morillo

Poesia

A soundscape of whispers

spreads over the room

like a hindering wing

while I straighten my lapelle.

Dour portraits are made

of the curses slung on the walls

like a mad-man’s affinity,

not to be forgotten,

unlike the living,

lithe & hidden

beneath veils & fedoras,

(opulence),

nameless among themselves.

How easily a favor is forgotten

among this crowd,

overshadowed by the slightest mishap,

swept beneath the rug and trampled

(proving that it is, in fact, easier to scowl).

Instead, rumors seep

through the cracks on their palms,

leaving only wrongs to be done.

I adjust my tie although the guilt

is perpetually flung about the room.

Blood congeals around their mouths,

ready to be shot out like

warning from lizard eyes;

did it ever hold any weight with them,

ground them in unity?

Though I dust off my pants,

the nascent aroma of backstab

still hangs

off my suit like the harrowing

ghost of misdeeds

past.

—starky morillo

Poesia

and I sit there

studying the record book,

caught in a maze of incoherent chapters,

searching for a truant truth

that left no scent,

no feather,

leaving me so negligible,

not worth a clue.

y tu?

while I sit there,

all but spit launched at me,

not an ounce of respite

poured into my cup;

left to lurch around

a room of flies, convoluted

as an abstract piece,

smudged and daubed at.

y tu?

still I sit there,

carving a straight face,

stitching a smile.

defiled in silence

soiled in despair,

I cursorily scan myself

and envy the eminence

of your graffiti.

y tu?

Poesia

Beneath the sun,

watching

the insides of my eyelids,

bull-teasingly red,

thoughts

grow & mellow

into a strawberry

jam.

Flesh and life paints

dreams on a bloodied canvas,

savoring the prancing wind which rolls

over my docile arms like

shapeless snow, scattered leaves swept

into it like wishes.

The growing heat

falls in waves,

pulsing,

recurring gifts from the sun,

and I melt into

another self-conscious.

Guided by everything but my eyes,

a new-fangled vista floats over

a bloodshot horizon, swallowing

up the preconceived.

Apple-bearing clouds stroll

the fields of cerulean clarity

while others remain flat like

stickers on a ceiling, leisurely waiting

to be peeled and put to use.

The life beneath comes together

like a verse and a chorus,

pulling in panda & polar bears

among men & sea turtles on

fictitious greens and bunkers.

They commune in silence,

absorbing each moment

like a starving vacuum with

nothing but minds

to clean.

There are no floating lips

condemned to perpetual motion,

the likes that fill our buses,

ride our trains, and

overload the workplace with

wasteful words that the world

could do very well without;

lips without a head

to contain them…

And as the suns passion retreats

into the darkness, as the insides

of these eyelids take on

a darker hue,

my inner world remains,

thankful for the

remnants of a day’s worth.

Although, through it all,

the fear

of what eyes can see prevails

and I wonder if the truth

in reality can ever

fill us with

the vigor of the most common

dream.

Merry-time mangos in hand, I’m just a guy
tracing virtues without knowing what to do.
These days are endless, sleep lost in a planner;
parts of me subvert the whole, tripping a dance.

Tracing virtues without knowing what to do
with unfair standards that leave me high & dry;
parts of me subvert the whole, tripping a dance—
si, si, como no? I’ll help you ‘til it hurts.

With unfair standards that leave me high & dry,
I, too, do not have someone to tie my shoe;
si, si, como no? I’ll help you ‘til it hurts.
Surely, I am happy to yawn with dear you.

I, too, do not have someone to tie my shoe,
each favor reminds me I’m a living lie.
Surely, I am happy to yawn with dear you;
one day I’ll learn to catch a drift, float upstream…

Each favor reminds me of a living lie;
these days are endless, sleep lost in a planner.
one day I’ll learn to catch a drift, float upstream…
merry-time mangos in hand, I’m just a guy.

water-flowered hair

Rain leaps from the trees,

liquid beads adorn her hair;

we share a fresh smile,

spring-legged sparrows cheer on,

drizzly breeze between a kiss

—starky morillo

Spring away from home

a mélange of languages

old rues, new to me—

calming, rendezvous-free days

camouflaged in April’s dew

]]> http://johnsonvillepress.com/peace-in-montreal-starky-morillo/feed/ 3 http://johnsonvillepress.com/13-black-cat-way-starky-morillo/ http://johnsonvillepress.com/13-black-cat-way-starky-morillo/#comments Mon, 18 May 2009 03:38:59 +0000 Alex G http://johnsonvillepress.com/?p=305 Read more »]]>

Yer blues are only beginning, black cat.

Her ears don’t catch your meowing, black cat.

With autumn’s wind, jasmine-scented hair flew;

her waving was so dismissing, black cat.

Like a St. Bernard, she sniffs out desire–

are your insides always showing, Black Cat?

Hedonistic dreams swim by while she walks;

The lotus floats without sighing, black cat.

Her majesty won’t need a megaphone:

the bird’s lullaby is crushing, black cat.

Her answering machine echoes within.

How palpable is your longing, black cat?

Your heart is heavy and yet you weigh less?

The tuna is meant for eating, black cat.

Moist eyes sulk as Sputnik orbits the earth.

Is your righting reflex missing, black cat?

You are he as she is she without you.

The world goes without sense-making, black cat.

Winter’s windy hands won’t let you forget.

Is your lusting so frostbiting, black cat?

Plenty of times there was no time for you…

Was your path made for avoiding, black cat?

How many lives does it take to get there?

Daft words are all you keep saying, black cat.

Koi fishes don’t really have wings, you know.

Starky and you need a blessing, black cat.