I ask you to identify me,
To stabilize my existence in this shaky world,
The wave that carries me as I lose myself in the ocean.
You must know.
You are here.
What are you seeking?
We should look for that beyond what we once were,
Faceless, a pure light,
Like a free bird.
We fly now straight to nowhere.
The body imprisons us, a cage.
Come now,
Before you are seduced by love.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Med School Application (I)
Shall I say that I have climbed Mt. Everest and found a drug to end all drugs?
No, but lies are not a physician's trade. I want to master that which is known unwavering, the anatomy, the physiology, blood, bile.
Then, shall I say I am a leader of leaders, shaping houses with my bare hands, wiping tears away with my smile and tests with my concentration?
No, but the truth should not be twisted. I want to ask the perfect question, contemplate the right dose, the saline line, diamond-tipped needle.
I must say I am but a boy in a world of beasts, just a pair of eyes with a gleam, perhaps fingers that are nimble; I cannot say I am scared of the future.
I am scared of the future.
No, but lies are not a physician's trade. I want to master that which is known unwavering, the anatomy, the physiology, blood, bile.
Then, shall I say I am a leader of leaders, shaping houses with my bare hands, wiping tears away with my smile and tests with my concentration?
No, but the truth should not be twisted. I want to ask the perfect question, contemplate the right dose, the saline line, diamond-tipped needle.
I must say I am but a boy in a world of beasts, just a pair of eyes with a gleam, perhaps fingers that are nimble; I cannot say I am scared of the future.
I am scared of the future.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Totem Song
Will you leave me, you, the one?
You who tore down my faces and found
The totem, deep inside- The many-headed snake?
In India, he bound the heaven and earth,
And built the fire upon the sea,
For his master, his love,
Like your love that brought my high brow down
To your sweet woody earth, and I drank
The sweet waters of those rivers.
You the one, who I turned to when I feared,
When I love, when I saw the crimson fire lash out
To lay me down, out of my past to haunt me deep into the waters
We had bridges; but together, we swam like two dolphins under the ocean,
Fearing no sharks, all laid bare to our senses,
Each other to our sensitivities.
And I breathed into you as you breathed into me,
All the breath we shared was all the breath,
Finite in molecules. Us.
You who tore down my faces and found
The totem, deep inside- The many-headed snake?
In India, he bound the heaven and earth,
And built the fire upon the sea,
For his master, his love,
Like your love that brought my high brow down
To your sweet woody earth, and I drank
The sweet waters of those rivers.
You the one, who I turned to when I feared,
When I love, when I saw the crimson fire lash out
To lay me down, out of my past to haunt me deep into the waters
We had bridges; but together, we swam like two dolphins under the ocean,
Fearing no sharks, all laid bare to our senses,
Each other to our sensitivities.
And I breathed into you as you breathed into me,
All the breath we shared was all the breath,
Finite in molecules. Us.
For Her
Your hand enfolds mine,
Heat transfers quickly between us,
Melts away my fears and our boundaries,
Back and forth.
We are one, no different.
We are the confluence of heaven and earth,
Red twilight setting over an endless ocean.
I press your face to my chest,
My heart beats after yours desperately,
Longingly. Inevitable like starlight
Twinkling that night we stood outside,
And nature was ours.
Dew collected on blades of grass,
Your eyes shone like the moon.
You kiss my lips slowly and surely,
Time speeds up, slows down, and stops.
I have no breath and no words.
You smell like the freedom of open sky,
Remind me of innocence spent climbing trees,
Reaching for the ripest fruit, the best of all.
I’ve found you.
Heat transfers quickly between us,
Melts away my fears and our boundaries,
Back and forth.
We are one, no different.
We are the confluence of heaven and earth,
Red twilight setting over an endless ocean.
I press your face to my chest,
My heart beats after yours desperately,
Longingly. Inevitable like starlight
Twinkling that night we stood outside,
And nature was ours.
Dew collected on blades of grass,
Your eyes shone like the moon.
You kiss my lips slowly and surely,
Time speeds up, slows down, and stops.
I have no breath and no words.
You smell like the freedom of open sky,
Remind me of innocence spent climbing trees,
Reaching for the ripest fruit, the best of all.
I’ve found you.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
April 9th, Pt. 1
“Next week, you should come back and read to me again.”
—–
He was a joyful man, showing teeth stained by smoke like varnish on rough wood between lips cracked by ungracious extremes of weather, or perhaps he just smiled too much. I met Mr. Espada while working as a patient care assistant at the Palliative Care Unit of Bethesda Hospital. Walking those quiet hallways, which smelled like strawberry cheese cake would be for desert, joy intermingled with solace. People came here to recover not just from their physical wounds but from the hurts of their hearts.
I went into his room as I did every other, saying, “Hello, Mr. Espada, how are you today? My name is Lorenzo, and I am a volunteer here. I just wanted to ask if there is anything I could do for you?”
The man was old but no decrepit, lying on his back at a slight angle, propped up by two smooth white pillows, as if enthroned at last in his own kingdom. His nostrils filled with oxygen from the transparent tubes; they hid well among his vast mane of grey and graying black hair, but, the marks of illness are not so easily obscured. “Do you speak Spanish?” He looked at me, no doubt wondering at my name, the name of those strong men of his motherland, not of young boys born in places south of the equator.
“Si, señor, un poco. Estudiaba en la escuela segundaria.” I knew my Spanish was bad, but perhaps I could make sense to him in some way.
“Me sorprendió, pero contento. Hace muchos años que no hablaste con una persona en español. En esto país no hay personas que háblala. Comprendes tu que me dijo?”
I told him that I understood, and we went along this way, him speaking quickly in Spanish, with me trailing along, asking him to repeat what he said many times. Mr. Espada was a son of Spain himself, born in times when black and white pictures were worth a fortune. He showed me what it looked like in Malaga before World War II; he was child, with those same hazel eyes, less bloodshot then but still contained of such animation as to be in motion even in silence. After Sunday mass, he would hold his father’s forearm and his mothers wrist and stroll out into the central square, watching people, stopping for a flavored piece of ice, and enjoying small wonders we now take for granted like the taste of Cola and the feel of his mother’s silk gown against his hand.
—–
He was a joyful man, showing teeth stained by smoke like varnish on rough wood between lips cracked by ungracious extremes of weather, or perhaps he just smiled too much. I met Mr. Espada while working as a patient care assistant at the Palliative Care Unit of Bethesda Hospital. Walking those quiet hallways, which smelled like strawberry cheese cake would be for desert, joy intermingled with solace. People came here to recover not just from their physical wounds but from the hurts of their hearts.
I went into his room as I did every other, saying, “Hello, Mr. Espada, how are you today? My name is Lorenzo, and I am a volunteer here. I just wanted to ask if there is anything I could do for you?”
The man was old but no decrepit, lying on his back at a slight angle, propped up by two smooth white pillows, as if enthroned at last in his own kingdom. His nostrils filled with oxygen from the transparent tubes; they hid well among his vast mane of grey and graying black hair, but, the marks of illness are not so easily obscured. “Do you speak Spanish?” He looked at me, no doubt wondering at my name, the name of those strong men of his motherland, not of young boys born in places south of the equator.
“Si, señor, un poco. Estudiaba en la escuela segundaria.” I knew my Spanish was bad, but perhaps I could make sense to him in some way.
“Me sorprendió, pero contento. Hace muchos años que no hablaste con una persona en español. En esto país no hay personas que háblala. Comprendes tu que me dijo?”
I told him that I understood, and we went along this way, him speaking quickly in Spanish, with me trailing along, asking him to repeat what he said many times. Mr. Espada was a son of Spain himself, born in times when black and white pictures were worth a fortune. He showed me what it looked like in Malaga before World War II; he was child, with those same hazel eyes, less bloodshot then but still contained of such animation as to be in motion even in silence. After Sunday mass, he would hold his father’s forearm and his mothers wrist and stroll out into the central square, watching people, stopping for a flavored piece of ice, and enjoying small wonders we now take for granted like the taste of Cola and the feel of his mother’s silk gown against his hand.
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