Hills

Hills
that bear the weight of soldiers
the spines of the abused
pointing down to the earth from which they came
Hills
that enfold the treasures of many households and
civilisations wisdom that is at once here and lost
or… Mounds.
that contain the dead…
for a while.
When the day breaks and the sun smiles its rest
Do we live among Hills
or pointed mounds

 


-Ben

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Image by Quang Nguyen Vinh

Who am I

What am I?

The face in the mirror

Yes, I’m me, the body,

Ben

But I watch the body.

I watch fingers tapping at the keyboard

I make them move

They belong to me

I can see thoughts too,

They create swirls of feelings like ice cream cones

Trains move through the station of this head that I can feel and I’m the only passenger on the platform.

 

So I’m the passenger and there’s no one around when I really look. When I look from Me,

This floating eye moving through the landscape of dimensions that I once knew and that I could one day come to

 

Yeah

 

Possibly I’m just depressed and longing for the answer to the questions that could serve me to my sustenance

but I believe in curiosity and the fruits of persistence

When falling from the path of the heart, I throw a line and hope it finds it’s destination

 


-Ben 

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Photography by Rafael Guajardo

Remnants of love

Never did I believe in love at first sight til I met her,

The floor fell from underneath my throat and my eyes saw only flowers

The remnants that I keep of that night are the chips of my past that were never washed in the tight lips that spoke a thousand truths in an instant [without saying anything] and in a daze were gone

And we walked for morning coffee along the tree strewn path and the leaves and the sunlight danced like the cistine chapel in our wake

She held my hand and led me to a dark corner to whisper in my ear. She told me about love and I didn’t believe her until she was gone.

The next day was grey from the night before. Reason tasted like cookies from school; raisins; off.
I felt like a lake in the moon light, left only with the still reflection of what could have been had I been quite right in the head.

Yet the unknowing is the loudest silence

the roaring thunder of torment that lingers on the lips of the assailed – nothing.