When there is nothing left, then there is nothing left to lose. And yet, we find ourselves pondering the losses and mourning the irretrievable. And we weep and we cry and we beg and we plead with the Gods, as if something or anything could eve be changed.
Laugh all they want, I know what I have lost. And I know what I have gained in the absence or the aftermath of my own aggression.
I’ve lost and I’ve tried and I’ve found myself in the emptiest place, late and past the midnight hours, and talking to myself, aimlessly, and with hope that somehow —I can find my way or find something that makes sense to me.
I don’t mind admitting this. I don’t mind reveling this as my truth and nor am i concerned with how this appears to the courts or the judges.
To hell with them.
And I am fine to think about what it means to hope and dream about things, like tiny cities in Mexico where I had dreamed that someday, I could be there, alive and well.
I want to be there like some kind of welcomed addition to a small town where tourists never visit and the usual regimes never think to travel to places like this.
I want to shed my northern skin and let go of my wintertime possessions. And yes, I would be fine to dress as they do in places like this.
I would be fine to be me, El Gringo, the hopeful white man who escaped the life and found my way to where the Gods choose to sleep.
I am fine to think and dream.
I don’t mind because this is what keeps me alive, —dreaming or thinking about the ideas of quiet places at sunrise where God and man have yet to interrupt each other.
There is nothing else here, except the sculpted shoreline, which is perfect and free from the common or manmade difficulties.
I don’t mind the ideas of me (and her) as we ride on the bow of some old boat, —the sky above is kind and the wind is calm with the sun, a warmth like the vibrant sensation, as if being touched by the sunlight is the same as being touched by the hand of Her, the Holy Mother, Mary, Mother of God.
In fact, the shafts of sunlight is the great Mother’s way of gracing us with her approval.
I think of these dreams about me, like some kind of transplant, American of course, and living elsewhere—as if to have made the choice to leave the commercialized world behind me. I relinquished my throne and while I will always be a prince of some kind; I am fine to be here and resign my position in this social disturbance, which I call “my life.”
I want to get away to let go of the definable life and the loudness of city life.
No more Midtown moments or downtown tragedies or swerving cabs with taxi drivers who speed with their Kamikaze gas pedals.
I want to be away from the competition.
No more status. No more needs to keep up with the neighbors or “the Joneses” and no more reasons to fit in with the illogical comparisons of people, places, and things.
I want to go. Now, if possible.
I want to escape. I want to break out of this place, as if to find my path or tunnel my way out of this prison.
I want to feel my toes as they dig into the white sands on empty beaches.
And here. is where I want her.
Of course I do.
I want to see her clearly. But more, I want to feel here both deeply and intimately. I want to touch her and feel the softness of her skin. I want to see the water from the bay while it beads on her body as the sunlight heats the surface of her flesh.
I want her to look at me as only she could.
She has me.
She has always had me.
And she knows this too.
She had me decades ago.
And all those years which have went between us; she still has me because she always will
I want to be here now, down below the equator. Or if I can, or if she lets me; I want to find myself below her equator, south of her hips, and between her gates which hold the secret of her beautiful sea.
I want to feel her beside me, laying in the brightness of white sheets in a white room where the sunlight comes through the window of some tiny villa—adoring here, admiring every inch and slithering against each other.
I want to feel her like I have never felt anything before. And this is more to me than the promise of Heaven. This is more than my dream or my purpose. This is more than my description of paradise, —yet to be with her, near her, or close and to be inside of her from both a physical and emotional perspective is the only Heaven I can imagine —and yes, I want her.
Of course, I do.
How else can a man memorize the body of someone like her?
I want her more than I want the feeling of salvation because to me; she is my redemption. She is my desire and my thirst and my hunger.
There are no gates of paradise for me, except for hers.
And to be clear –
I have waited millenniums for this, and for her, or if I am looking to be saved from my own hell, I have waited for her as my Heaven since before my time began.
You, my love.
I have known you since before my time began, and more, I have known you before anything else.
You are more than y tales of before and after because to me; you are like some kind of tale that has always been intended.
The testimony of destiny shows that you were intended for me before The Garden of Eden bore fruit. Before Adam.
Before Eve.
No. You were before God, Himself, planted the tree of knowledge which bore the forbidden fruit.
I know this and because I know this, I know that nothing can stop me.
Not the guards. Not the bars or the concrete walls.
Not the devils or the demons.
Not the steel that holds the foundation and not even the gates of hell or walls here in purgatory can stop me from you.
Nothing can stop this dream because here I am, standing on some lonesome beach in a quiet section of paradise, waiting, hoping, and pleading with the greater powers to please, let this be me.
Let this be you.
Let me have her.
Let me find my way out of this prison cell.
Let me see the blueness of the southern seas, like the Sea of Cortez between Baja California and the mainland.
Let me find my way. Pease –
Or if the answer is no, then let me face my executioner. Let me start my time and serve my penance because if all I have is hope, then hope is my only version of Heaven.
I swear not even eternity can stop me.
I promise.
I want to love her.
I want to let go of my old or violent lullabies that kept me awake for decades.
I want to remove the armor cover plates and the shields that protected my pierced soul, which was tragic and hard, but true and real in spirit.
Nothing is so impossible to me. Nothing is too far beyond my reach.
No one can take her from me.
I won’t let this happen.
No one can stop me.
Not even me.
Nothing can prevent me from loving her because yes; I have tried to walk away from love or to live without love, —and no matter where I hid, or where I ran, nothing could wipe away her face or the relevant memories of pain, which I inflicted upon myself, of course.
My time is my time, and my penance is my penance.
I will serve this until its completion.
It is as it was said:
The Son of Man came to give sight to the blind and to take from those who could see.
I had always been able to see, which means therefore, it was me who had sinned. And I will pay for this until the end of time.
I understand.
But still, I have to try.
I have to break away.
I have to escape the threat of the judges and the jury and find my way out of here. I have to find my way down to the place where the Saints come to vacation.
This place is real too.
And so is she.
I have touched and tasted and dabbled in different brands of ecstasy.
But her.
She.
My love.
Nothing is as beautiful.
No kiss is as seductive.
No one can take away who she is to me
Therefore, this one is for you, my love.
One day, I know.
Even if it is only in my dream, —I know that the clock will click in my favor. I know that you hair will move softly from the gentle wind.
I will see the glisten in your eyes as the sunlight comes down in the finest ways, warming the tanned skins of us as we move closer to kiss.
I will have my lips press against your lip
I will taste your tongue as it touches mine.
And dare I say this, I see you
I see everything.
I see the beauty marks and the curves and the tiny curl at the edge of your smile.
I will tell the world and the governors in Heaven how I need her.
I need her more now than ever before.
I need to feel her close to me, as in skin against skin.
I want to be with her, as in her beside her, and more, I want to roll over after our bodies collide in the best triumph that comes between two people.
I want to erupt and explode, deep within her.
And I want to hear her scream for me.
I want her to be as wet as the ocean and as loved or worshipped as the sun.
I want her now more than ever before.
But before any of this can happen, I have to escape from where I am now.
I have to break free
I have to get out of here.
The guards have been checking in on me twice after their head counts.
I know they have their eyes on me.
So do the judges.
So does the prosecution.
So do the accusers and the hypocrites who point their fingers to avoid their own blame.
I don’t care about any of them.
I don’t care about anything anymore.
I don’t care about the oncoming lights in the tunnel at the World Trade Center subway station.
I don’t care what happens in Grand Central Station or in the buildings above it and nor am I concerned with the ins and outs of the trains that leave Pennsylvania Station.
I’m on my way to that great place in my heart, which is where she will find me—because to me, I want to be where the spirits go
So they can be free.
La Isla Espiritu Santo
The Island of The Holy Spirit
One day, my love.
I promise
I swear. . .
The Written Addiction 