Mariposa

http://www.myspace.com/lesgensdoiseau/music

Dry Heat

They tore the old Indian school down. The remains were put into piles in the dirt lot. The emptiness of a previously occupied space by spirits of a suppressed culture, displacement of air. I heard stories about wild horses running around on the walls late at night. Galloping. The desert. Dry heat. broken bloodline arroyos been dried out for years. Filled only with the deranged tears of drunks that found themselves there, not crying out of sadness or happiness, but some fucked up combination of the two. Sunflower skeletons. I heard the stories about llarona and her wailing, we can't go there at night for she may mistake us for her own children. Red handprints on shoulder blades. This is a place where flowers grow out of cement and tangled tree roots distort the sidewalk they hide under. Refuge. I heard a story about an enormous owl on a rooftop. I'd sew up the holes in the featherless if they'd only let me. Refugees. I heard stories about skinwalkers disappearing, leaving behind only the evidence. I saw the pictures engraved in the rock, evidence left behind, they were here before us. Ruins. Handprints. My culture is that of a braided people. Feathers in their hair. Running. We describe light using shadows. Back to dust, we keep writing ourselves into rust. We are the rust of our ancestors past.

Oilspills

A dotted line that indicates fold rather than cut.

You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. 

Sleepwalker has oil spills instead of eyes.

Golden grime. 

Sleepwalker cut up maps and put them back together in a different way. 

Topography. A representation of three dimensional space on a flat surface. Looking for somewhere to get lost. 

Desolate. 

Sleepwalker claims there is a rabbit and a nurse inside of me. 

Half-sleep (somewhere in between).

I didn’t believe him.

Looking for somewhere to get lost. Following footprints made out of soot from the fire that burned down the buildings. Only found by not looking.  

Long forgotten but not lost yet (somewhere in between).

Holding onto each other until they let go. Letters threaded together. Cursive. 

Broken birds on a telephone wire like sheet music, a song he sang into my throat. 

I haven’t forgotten it yet.

But he’s forgotten how to fall asleep. 

Somewhere in between.

It’s 4 am and we’re waltzing in the kitchen to that tattered pigeon song we used to know. 

Smiles Like A Rabbit

He wants to take her childhood memories of the suicidal father throwing live fish on top of compost piles. 
He wants to take things miles and miles out of context until they don’t make sense anymore. 
In the same way it becomes harder to see someone the further you are from them. 
He trusts his mind. 
It is a false perception to believe that things in your mind are more beautiful than reality. 
It isn’t fair sometimes. 
A plastic bag tangled in tree branches, stretched out and thin. 
He became deranged in the hundred year old house, broke down and wrote a twenty-seven page letter, later realizing there was no one to send it to. 
The paint is chipping off of those thick, thick walls. 
Walls have learnt how to contain us, and how to keep people out. He wants to be a silent character and he wants us all to be silent. 
It isn’t fair. He says we’ll be recreated in his silent film in black and white with our lips sewn together. 
And he says this is all false. 
He trusts his mind a little too much sometimes. 
Recreating moments in film is two dimensional. 
He sits on a brick wall everyday with his feet dangling inoperable below him. 
He was once called “Smiles like a rabbit,” but he has forgotten how to smile and wears a blank face with open eyes that only see what he wants to be seen. 


He wasn’t ready to give the memories back yet.