Just smuggling fruit

Ive begun work on my first spanish movie. Am I that moved by the place and the culture and the language that I want to tackle it head on and toss my creative juice into speaking such tongue in a feature length amateur film? You are damned right!

Perhaps shooting will begin tommorow, in the summery haze of morning, trooping through cacti plastered fields with tripods and sweaty equipment bags holding smiles just long enough to get that shot just right. Im excited.

So look for it folks, "El Arbol de Regalos, A film about young love, selfless giving, and Mexican fruit smuggling"...

After that, just maybe Mexico City, and if we make it out alive and with our gear we will have a story to tell the world.

!Viva Mexico!

Carry on, Carry on dancing…

Let the music begin; and to my surprise it is the Mariachi. A strange new set of rules when you cross the border and into something a bit more substantial than a crappy country garage band filled to their brim with the BUD ON TAP ordered for the very special occasion/wedding. The Mariachi are so damn unique to themselves, hence my intrigue.

Having worked for a certain company that involves itself with social occasions, I have been exposed to a gamut of entertainment experiences. I can tell you when the thought out toss of hair by a neurotic Quinceaneras mother can mean; the cake will be cut in five minutes, get your cameras ready.

Then I hunch in the corner, secretly zooming in on your face to see what you might be eating. I might experiment a bit with night shot to get a glimpse of a bra line through a diaphanous black dress, scarcely a nipple but the art is imperfect anyhow. Light plays tricks indeed, but nothing that godlike. Sometimes invited to eat; never the cake though. Ill fill up on dinner rolls and inscribed valentine mints. Ill try the chicken entrée and endless iced teas, gets warm lugging this equipment around.

Those are all bland facts compared to the capacity for voyeurism. Image you pay said company to send me on a paid trip with a bag full of electrical voyeurisms; to your precious wedding/birthday/someday I want to film a divorce. I show up and am immediately an extended member of the family. Hence, I dine with you, meet all the family, see the girls baby pictures that stretch all the way back to bloody. I hear the jokes, delight when you dance and lip sync, and laugh on the inside when you have five too many margaritas, do a conga line, lose you shoe and fall on your head. Why laugh on the outside, right? Because video is forever, and that’s laughter enough.

So enough of my poor Spanish to get through and its midnight, time to pack it up and ship it out. By then the Padrino’s are a bit brandied up and need not babysitting for they are practically pickles. Give the thanks, and say goodbye to your instant family forever, or until some other fine young Hija ripens to age or gets a rock on her finger. See you all again someday, different time, different popular restaurant, and certainly a new and unique variation of “El Mariachi Loco”.

The Stoop

For all I know, we are in unison on the corner of some dusty street, miles and miles apart, sun setting and groping its last rays over our booze afflicted bodies. For everything I don't know, there is a sign somewhere pointing to the inevitable.

Without being able to see you, I can only imagine that we are together trapped in such a foreboding isolation. I can only dream that we participate in a breed of longing that only timeless lovers can summon.

I can only sit here, and with baited breath and intoxicated influence, hope to affect somehow the weave of fabric that brings back what im lastly kept from.

Its difficult to separate every emotion and every body. Its a complication to now attempt to draw from each experience as is own, as though untainted by experience and the million hormone saturated smootches. Its difficult to remember names and faces as much as just the feeling of being cared for. It comes to this eventually, when I can no longer struggle for the idealism of love and instead merge the senseless concepts thereof to make out of the clay of harsh lust a golem of satisfaction.

As though your hair spilled blonde or black on a pillow or against a wall. Whether your hands just barely fit in mine, or were pinned by the weight of my hips to yours. Like your eyes reflected so much as an ocean, or beamed like polished tiger eye, or even cut frantically out of emerald brilliance.

All experience as one lusty experiment, one haughty last revisit to sexy land. Each plummet into rapture as ravishing as the first, each beat and rhyme drummed out by crotches in perfect rhythm structure.

I can barely recall the details of a single body as I remember the sum of all.

It could still be you I see in distant whirls of the plains dust. It could be your car or your face or your voice, all found in some inconspicuously public location.

It still will all disappear under the weight of the earth, yet only to me bears a force of meaning. Only to me will your voice hold that polished ring, so don't let the romancers fool you. Do you think you will be as beautiful to anyone else, after having wasted so much on me?

So much decided as we sat on that stoop together, in my imagination anyhow, some two thousand miles apart. So much I lost to time, that I still let slip away to the laziness of being sad.

Yet there is a sadness to knowing that I cant be complete, or that happiness is only found in myself, because I fear that I have given that gift away at some somber gathering, at a party you organized so long ago. You got all my beloved people together, made my favorite party snacks and then spiked the punch with...

I have still forgotten how to take that one step forward, and that's the moral of our love.

War looms unpredictable,

War looms unpredictable,
Balmy clouds forcing me into despicable liaison,
With abandoned and unkempt shelter,
With roofs like pinhole cameras,
Catching all the broken light,
That sputters over milk white structures,
Perhaps vermillion when the sun is downing,
When the cameras need external brilliance,
To shutter their imaginary glass eyes,
To forever preserve,
To assist cranial perspectives,
To adapt my timid frame to the surroundings.

A day of waking from tiredness,
Restless concepts built from a frantic January,
That follow me through more months and mornings than that,
And you can rub your eyes to give greeting,
Or get meaning through voyeuring,
Old slatted walls leave holes where plaster is bled out by rain,
Watch them walk and dance and pray,
See them dress.

Then we are getting married…

There is not a cake, imagine that,
But what’s under that veil?
That… shroud?

I might be losing clarity.

It’s HIM under that cloth,
I nonchalantly toss aside the fabric,
It looks like a blue bed sheet,
And it’s HIM beneath it.

I think, boy, why are you at my wedding,
Why are you at my most sacred day of union?
But neither my hands nor face respond to such logic,
Because I’m cutting him up with silverware,
I’m putting cake-like slices of him on platters for guests.

I feed a piece to my beloved bride,
And she eats a morsel with a grin,
What is this grin she is wearing?
Its reminiscence, I recognize it,
She has eaten this Goddamn cake before.

Furious at something and I’m whirling around with cake-ware,
Collapsing tables and slapping even the feeble guests,
I’m humiliated,
He has crawled inside,
He is ruining my finest moment.

Yet war looms, paltry and irresponsible,
It settles on dusty side roads,
It smokes harsh cigars,
It carries a heavy bag that jingles like loose pocket change,
It slings its dirty sack over one shoulder,
To let the other rest a while.

I’m in a tattered tuxedo,
Still running from the ruins,
That special day was built of wax impressions,
Meant only to melt with the passion of the moment.

I remember cutting your little eyes from the cake,
And every few miles a finger will find them in my breast pocket,
I’ll make sure they remain,
Two bead-like brown eyes,
Fixed pupils like eminent train wrecks,
Can’t help but stare at them,
Maybe that was her problem too,
To fall forever into their meaning,
I just have to see what she wanted with them…

I’m surprised you could keep up all those years,
It’s amazing the time you spent traveling,
From state to state,
In all of our little apartments,
Maybe you just found some niche in my brain,
And stuck there steadfast,
Waiting for the moment to strike.

I’m broken as I wander the black highway,
Sputtering recitations and problematic vows,
Screaming to hot deaf air what I knew was once love.

Because war looms in the unopened lids of my shaded eyes,
And my stares are now just as blank and unpredictable,
They are the last visual stabs of a shattered wanderer.