americana breakfast on a friday day

smell of tuna sandwich
but the coffee straight and black balances it ok out
acoustic on the back
not yes does matter anymore since why?
the smell
one one one
one on top of the other one
mattered one day
not yet to anyone
there

people in paris
sings cat & sings powers
but who cares if they are in paris?
or if this tuna is grisly?
layered within dark café
and compassionate early-friday-breakfast pain

doesn’t much matter
lately later
since in my cradle
you are not
not today not yesterday
not today not tomorrow
not again

∑ sweater azulito
∑ la blusa de lino
∑ focaccia
∑ los quesos de lata camembert
∑ un trozo de pecorino pequeño
∑ parmesano fresco
∑ el vino 2 botellas
∑ semillitas de plantas para el jardín, no girasol
∑ mantón que te regaló Ana / vestido con el que nos poníamos

Lafcadio Hearn and his brumous luminosity

Today I got a self-paid package on the mail from New York City’s Strand bookstore.

The fine-smelling wrap up (fragrance of cardstock and aged paper mostly) displays an orangey logo on the upper left corner that reveals the motto of this remarkable multi-shelved palace of modern manuscripts: 18 miles of books.

The book ordered is Stray Leaves from Strange Literature by Lafcadio Hearn, a ‘little mosaic of legend and fable’ (as Lafcadio describes himself) a compendium of stories reconstructed and re-written by Hearn based on ancient jewels of literature such as the Anvari-Soheili, Baital, Pachisi, Mahabharata, Pantchatantra, Gulistan, Talmud, Kalewala, etc.

The Contents as follows:

1. Stray Leaves
2. Tales Retold from Indian and Buddhist Literature
3. Runes from the Kalewala
4. Stories of Moslem Lands
5. Traditions Retold from the Talmud

The book printed in 1884 is in almost mint condition, considering the age. It was among the Modern Rare editions printed ones. I can wait to immerse myself in the brumous luminosity of Lafcadio’s ways.

Here a link to a Lafcadio Hearn website with more information on this amazing man who after strolling around Greece, Ireland, New York, Cincinnati, and New Orleans, settled in Japan, where his art flourished as beautiful as a garden in bloom during a tea ceremony.

http://www.mitchellspublications.com/guides/la/no/bio/hearnl/02/

Gracias to Lafcadio, to the Strand bookstore, and to the dear friend that took me there for the first time.

un-consciousness is glee while type fast on blank mind

hardly a few look-like-white-teeth-yet-are-little-plastic-cubes
carrying a sign, a typeface, a style
on their miniature square backs
with shifty strokes they
surrender tap tap tap at my fingers, strong

synthetic-keyboarded souls
ship
scanty substance on the written
grammar and languages broken
reddish underlines symptomatic of bad spelling tickle

still my teeth and my feet
peregrinating to them
an unrecognizable jaunt arrives
body bliss on
just times and arial fonts
no raison d'être not for a good cause

as black stitches on a white skin
they appear random on the screen
letters, electronic-calligraphy, cyber-inscriptions
materialize

on my keyboard, on my heart, on my hips…

12 and in a night-train

She thought or knew
This is it then:
Being an adult, she meant
She was just 12
But was by herself riding an over-night train!
No mother, no granny, no aunts this time
Nobody accompanied her
She felt so fulfilled extremely independent

She was free, yet a bit afraid
A train station at night
And she, all by herself!
Has to remember all the instructions given

All the signals of concern
Trains were always a fascination for her
Specially the ones with night cabinets
Those that had toilets hidden on what looked like a chair

And long seats that became beds
Open a little bit that door cabinet and
Here it is a small lavatory with a nice mirror
Where she can see herself and her hair

She’s barely twelve
But she travels alone in a train
She can’t wait for the dinner hour
When all the passengers meet in the dinning car

She can’t avoid the excitement of
Of the reminiscence of The Lady Vanishes
Memoir on her head
One of her favorite movies
She watches mystery movies and reads Sherlock Holmes
Waiting to solve the imaginary mysteries she knots on her head
Who killed my neighbor upstairs? (the neighbor was fine & alive)
Who is black-mailing my English teacher? (the English teacher just had black teeth & lung from the 20 cigarettes a day but not a single spot on her 64 years of life, not to mention never a blackmail)

But this 12-year-old girl is highly imaginative
And now she travels alone in a train…

What occult mysteries would be waiting at the dinning car?
A friendly woman about to disappear maybe? In front of my face?
Or perhaps an assassination and a corpse will be thrown out of the fast-car?

As her mother warned her,
She should stop her highly-imaginative mind
No murderers nor mysteries this time
Just she's happy
Already traveling by herself in an over-night train
if something exciting is going to happen ever in her life
it is going to be tonight
what better occasion that a long night on a moving train?

This is how being adult is she thinks

but today
She snoozes out of her thoughts
today when she’s already 36 and is seating on a chair
Shared-office, a surviving half decent job
where she plays with images as she did back then

She realized she’s been day dreaming again
Of that night, when she traveled first
As an adult
Alone, at 12
On a midnight train

Today
Still no mysteries to solve
Still nobody has disappear and nobody
For Sherlock Holmes or the
Enigmas of lost Egypt seem anymore to care

What a boring world
We live in now
All is blogs and e-chats

Was better when she was 12 since
Agatha Christie & Conan Doyle were popular back then…