September
By Christopher Longoria
between homes. at home and left home. rode into a rushing world after throwing badges down in the dirt and dusting off old ones. watched the people’s faces at home. the years slowly chiseled into their timeless expressions. it is peaceful there, though pain does not elude us. my feet dug into sand as the water drew out to the gulf, as if the land itself wrapped around my ankles commanding me to stay. i dissolved in the stark orange sunset and remember my home is love. an endless gush of warmth. old friends remain friends, old roads lead to the same places, old memories recalled in stories told with a sepia voice. brown is red and much of the food is yellow and light orange. and i am full in every way that makes me a human being.
i stood on rocks in the deep gulf where water baptized me in salt. i sat and listened to my homes hymn. the lights aligning my sight all the way into midnight. the humidity clung to me, saturating my wounds, healing the cuts and gashes the city sidewalk had long ago slashed into my salty skin. i contemplate the hurricanes i’ve survived. i remember the deaths and the humility brought on by them. the camaraderie forged in tragedy. let it rain, it only freshens us. it grows the grass my feet are tickled by, it beckons the dragonflys, the bees and butterflys. the loveliest sound when it lands on the banana tree leaves. the world outside doesn’t understand the pointless politics, the interactions, the silent conversations. beyond it all the candid affection. but we are not frozen in time, it just doesn’t rule our life. for that we are judged.
returning, i think i’ve misunderstood tolerance and patience. listen to the games here, the webs spun to justify being numb. everyone is ambitious, logical, and aware. just one in a million to find the peace. so many words building the illusion.
but at home the stray cats stroll even with wounds on their backs. lick their paws and walk on. the dogs don’t want to be bothered because we’re probably not really a threat. i rode the long texas highway into the song of the mariachi. the nimble fingers quickly getting to the place in your soul where the red mind rests. it opened me. it allowed my mouth to move wide and speak in my native tongue. big round sounds with hums and punches, in metaphors, parables, and sayings. uninterrupted by “what”. i was understood. i went home and i listened. to the stories, to the sadness, to the water, to the music, to the needs, to the new families, to the rattling locusts, the giddy crickets, to the suddenly woke dragonflys, to the rectangular words, to the soft love, to the hum of the dark night where barefooted i beat the deathless drum and blew smoke
respects my good friend,
christopher