I woke up the other morning to birds chirping & I saw for a moment the intermingling and connecting of hexagons
I don’t know how, but my mind’s eye translated the birds’ song
like a quantum beehive, or perhaps better described as a blueprint for lysergic acid diethylamide.
Whatever it was exactly, instead of those black notes dancing around, it resembled a molecular structure drawn on a living canvas; the hexagons breaking apart and reorganizing with every chirp, chirp, chirp until the sun came up and I was fully awoke.
Then off to work & I fall right into a city daze
a digital hustle
a modern day alchemical struggle
turning pixels into cash
sound systems reverberate row homes
arguments bounce off brick walls
little kids holding hands, cute as can be, going to & from school throughout the day
everyone moves like molasses
the skyline like a heartbeat
a lullaby of barbed wire & cracked concrete
feathers ruffle in heat
naked bodies ruffle in sheets
fire hydrants spurt water
ice cream trucks jangle a monotonous song of sweets
the smell of charcoal whiffs from backyards like stray cats appearing from alleyways
I eat mulberries off trees. They stain my palms purple like ink. Purple like the shit on picnic tables because the birds eat the mulberries too. It gives me a sense of communion: we share the wealth of trees.
Jazz nights at the local bar where I twist my hand into cursive. Beer foams, tobacco smokes. Tattoos cover the walls of souls.
Whenever I see fresh graffiti, it makes me stop and contemplate the banditry of artists. Like cave paintings or hieroglyphs, the symbols sneak inside the eyes and unlock creative places in the subconscious.
I go to the community garden an hour or so before sunset. There’s peacefulness during that time of day. You can feel the breeze. The birds flock in slow motion.
A portrait is painted on the sign there. Cesar Andreu Iglesias. I looked him up. He was a journalist and labor activist in Puerto Rico.
The tink of hammer against nail echoes off the surrounding walls. & I feel the spirit of Senor Iglesias smiling down as small acts of labor resound the air.
When I enter the garden, I water the pot on the head of the Mesoamerican statue near the entrance. It feels like worship, like I’m honoring those who came before. Comfrey is growing there.
I’ve been planting seeds.