the most beautiful place we know

rainy season in my heart. brings tangled, draping nets of greenery - succulent and saturated -  bowing at the weight of their dripping tendrils, silent like the thick of a jungle canopy waiting for the primordial buzz of the insect choir to build to a crescendo. rainy season in my heart makes rivulets down mountainsides, tosses drab-colored swallows in lonely gusts of wind, drenches the hollow, sighing valley in endless curtains of rain, and in the yellowed evening, evaporates mist from broad, tired fronds. rainy season in my heart. sends me hiding behind curtains, while moss grows thick on my veins, and the forest menagerie emerge slowly from their shelters to collect water from the swollen womb of green earth. rainy season in my heart. and I am constantly drenched in mist, precipitation dripping from my temples, my nose, my eyelashes, the scent of fresh, wet soil trailing after me, damp leaves plastered to my wrists and wrapped in my

I am busy making braids with the strands of time in my hands; over, under, twisted thick, hanging heavy under body weight. I bring each one around, guiding with nimble fingers -- trading freedom [pieces] for security [the whole]. My motions are rhythmic; the act is involuntary. when I get to the end, I will un-do it all and start again.

I am nothing if not the night. And here, the night does not simply show up: it is birthed. Heaving and fresh. In heavy blues, like ten thousand pounds of velvet curtain, sweeping indigo across the dirt floors and nodding palm fronds. I am everything except the sun, in her slow retreat leaving some corners in shadows, others woven in milk-gold threads; a lattice work of a days' dues on hot acrid streets, panhandling mangos, sombreros, electric pink soda, leather bracelets, packets of chiclets, charred and greased meat. They play checkers on the street corner and follow women with their folded eyes, sometimes murmuring under their breath. "Mamacita." "Que linda." "Preciosa." And then return to their game, to their cigarettes and their sweating beer cans. In the mornings, the square is a pastel colored bird bath, damp from the breath of the night, dewey with new light, dappled with the flaps of pigeon wings and the soft scratch of brooms across tile a

I am trying to find a word for love. One that will fill up my mouth with liquid silver, drip down my chin and pool, bubbling and warm, in the trough of my chest. I am looking for it in darkened pictures frames around windows that should be lit. I am looking for it too earnestly, in violet glow from skies that have been set on fire. I am looking for it while hurling rocks at the moon,  cursing its ethereal bend. It's only paper and yet... If I could only see it through, this moon and me, than perhaps silver would spill from my lips

my human form is a container for an ancient aching. an elemental longing. to breathe like a mountain; to love like a tree adorned.

I think I have three different blogs on rotation. None of them right; none of them consistent. None of them come close to capturing whatever it is I'm trying to capture. And I am trying to capture....something. Indisputably elusive. But I am persisting, if only because I don't know what else to do. It's occasionally clear that my words need to go somewhere. Conversations recently with a cherished friend, one of those truly special ones who has grown with me through the years, have invigorated desires to share in some form, regardless of all the curious insecurities that come along with the "simple" act of distilling words from thoughts; and there are many. My life is currently placed in Colombia. Right outside Medellin, in the suburb of Sabaneta. It is safe and feels like a small town, nestled in the mountains like most of Medellin. There are tall apartment buildings scattered between low-lying buildings, houses and apartments and tiendas that have sat stubbor