- by Adam Nichols Russell -
A net sprawls out
casting its web
splicing Oaxacan tides —
Pacific foam atop churning pint glass.
The prospect of aquatic sustenance
is schooling about beneath the suds.
Narrow boats, precarious.
The shoddy boats maneuver.
unrepentant hot star
Millions of miles away
glaring down on us, judging.
The sun wants to sit beside us
In the mounds of grainy decay
with a Pacifico in one hand —
limes floating like exoplanets
suspended in dark matter.
Kicking stones in the desert,
A lone child stands
with the dirt road’s distance.
Skydivers plummet overhead,
raining down —
a parade of discarded circus tents
lofty amongst flapping clouds.
Friends arrive with boards
ready to brave record breaking surf.
One of them calls out
just past the breakers —
something about weightlessness,
“Will the next wave carry us to tomorrow?”
I shout back:
“No. But I bet this undertow will drag us back to yesterday!”
As if the rip-tide’s an old friend
begging us to stay for one last drink.
Downtown is bathing in swaths of smoke,
Swatches of color, meat browning,
peddlers, booths, mariachi,
all coexisting in rhythm.
Along to the insistent beat of work,
the honorable pulsating lifeblood of a culture.
At every corner,
each serpentine alleyway
leads us into celebratory night.
We are celebrating this new discovery
We are relishing in obscurity,
the brick and mortar basics
of a $25 seaside motel,
a toilet with no seat.
We’re all surrounding the core of the Earth
At nighttime fire pit.
Ocean’s stomping its perpetual march
underscoring these exploits.
Rising above a native current
primal beats labor over outdated speakers.
Certain evenings are immortal,
The cacophony of sense
In the vague, subtle touch of recollection:
• Burning scraps in campfires,
• Fishing vessels winking lamplights
• Green eyed avocados mashed in stone cauldrons
• The same looping drums fighting through static on every radio
There is no urgency in the wind here.
It brushes past
As an unassuming stranger
In an abandoned town.
but smoothing over nature,
grazing across humanity.
Here there are no borders
states wander into one and other.
No difference between
One family in Curnevaca,
One family in Puebla.
They are the same in Cleveland.
They are the same in Spokane.
Learning this on
12 hour bus back
to Distrito Federal
Teetering around bends.
Entire ride shaking with
sweat and the Spanish language.
The world is fleeting past us
interlaced and disjointed.
An eternal kaleidoscope hurtling.
Peering through humid, clear squares
— or plastic,
the jet-streams intersecting in space
their white trails,
scars on endless blue skin.
I am looking at a bus full of passengers
They are trudging
through the rough tides of circumstance.
I am seeing the thatch roof houses,
No telling what coincidence
brought us all here.
We are fortunate objects in motion
unified in common spirit.
We are somewhere…
and the sun is now leaving us.
-Read at Edgings & Inchings Poetry Night @ REAL ART WAYS on 3/12/14