10 December, 2011


To return from somewhere you don’t call home,
a place filled with laughter and love and calm,
to a place that is called home,
but that is filled with silent, caustic, lonesome wind,
is difficult.


Novha is bright and loud.
Novha is covered with red, radiant light.
Novha weeps truthfully and laughs with might.
Novha keeps her word and maintains balance.
Novha knows all past and all futures.
Novha judges nothing and registers everything.
Novha is ancient and young.
Novha is proud and scenic, and makes movement.
Novha is bright, and loud, and honorable.


Interstate living means
shuttling back and forth,
listening to trafficked people
and trafficked time,
while mimicking adult behaviors.

We sit transfixed by our own
connection, in a metal box
on a road, shuttling back and forth,
tripping over deer and other drivers,
while laughing to the point of frenzy.

Starting statically and searching for adventure,
we sell paper and buy cacti, trying
maniacally to maintain the memory
that we create simultaneously,
while shuttling back and forth.


The taste of anise and warmth of comrades
fill the space, small, erotic and sincere.

Paper, strung to walls with tacks and laughter,
serve as symbols for language and mental states.

Five characters, all protagonists, witness each other’s follies
and steam back and forth on drink and mirth.

Some are quiet and even,
while others are moxied and dense like stars.

The combination of music and song and juices is perfect,
like a cosmic alignment predicted by ancients.

The night falters not once, patiently laying out
love and frenetic laughter and not one ounce of pain.

The words strewn about the floor dictate the message
of friendship that celebrates union of five lowly souls.