1. |
I Won't Kiss Any Saint
04:27
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I'm tempting to tell you again./ I'm trying to hold my words/ but there aren't sharp on my swords./ I can tell you what I love of you,/ but I like the unnamed./ I won't kiss any saint. So many noise, clams, claims,/ horse, roar, rhymes./ I just want the wind on my face./ To hum, to purr, to amaze./ Don't let me think, praise./ I won't kiss any saint. I don't know how but I paint,/ a color here, a line there./ I'm lazy, dreamy, my pen staint./ I stare, I listen, I fail./ I mix lemon with honey, hon./ But I won't kiss any saint. What else can I say?/ too much "I" s in vain./ Too many bubbles, babbles. / I'd like to see you without explain./ To swoon, delete and faint./ But I won't kiss any saint.
by Guadalupe Galván
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2. |
Cooking
03:08
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It's these last days of the year like nameless days that are weird, vacant, sleepy. I had to cook for people at Dec 24th and that left me completely tired all week and tomorrow 31 I will cook again for others.
Anyways.
It is good that you'll sleep instead of cooking. I wasn't going to cook for people these holidays but my friends called me and insisted. Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve dinners are a big deal here. Cooking is too much. I only recommend it if you really really like doing it, because if you don't it is better to keep away from it or pay someone to do it, like them. I would pay for it. Unfortunately I love it. So I already want it to be 8 pm that I will be free to eat whatever and watch a gangster movie in my bed.
by Guadalupe Galván
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3. |
Lunch
03:11
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My lunch was in a place of food from Turkey. It was a dark pear. Pomegranate, lamb, those delicious things. Like it was designed for me. Those flowers of my table are my favorites: cempasúchil and velvet flowers.
by Guadalupe Galván
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4. |
Blame the Food
04:48
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I dreamt that we, the three, were surrounded by scorpions. I didn't see your faces, only your feet, but there they were. We were trying to kill them but the scorpions were hiding fast. One was biting my heel and I was pulling its body away from me. I remember feeling its body and worrying if something would happen to me. It made me wake up just now. My arms are sore. I am writing it down and telling you so I don't forget it and so it doesn't happen. I didn't really eat anything before going to sleep so I can't blame the food. Some people blame the food when they have nightmares.
Can you tell me what page of the Dreams Meaning Book i can find this?
by Guadalupe Galván
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5. |
Little Sail Boat
02:34
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The wind direction favored my little sailboat.
I trusted the object that never let go of my hand.
Suddenly everything was tied together: the voice, the hand,
the object, the eyes, the words and to whom the voice was directed.
I made many attempts with various objects and I was very immersed
in the process. It was fascinating. You opened a window for me.
I don't know if you created a monster or just unmasked me.
It was beautiful to do this.
by Guadalupe Galván
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6. |
Ghost Song Promise
02:41
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In the blue room light
while the crickets deciphered the code of every dawn
I told you that I could inform you when you were a ghost
I listened to the spiders -- strangled the webs in the corners
I heard the leaves brushing and murmuring secrets against each other
I heard a distant wine laugh
I told you that before I'd let you wander with that lightness, the world
and maybe I would find out what obsesses you without asking you.
I'm just a stranger but I could inform you
and I can hum a tune for you to dance to
in the blue room light
it seemed I was talking to myself
confused like a dream
humming a tune the floor drank from some old leaky drip
you answered with the silence that only ghosts speak
and disappeared and disappeared and disappeared
by Guadalupe Galván
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7. |
Trauma Dress
00:59
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Absolutely. All my unhealed traumas come from wearing that dress and waltzing with 4 guys in front of everybody.
by Guadalupe Galván
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8. |
Little Harp Questions
03:36
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I don't know how you would like to answer, if you'd like to answer with your voice or someday in person or with a smoke signal or or I don't know.
1. How does improvisation work in your writing?
2. Is melancholy an internal reaction to the world or is it a random emotion according each person?
3. What do you think about sarcasm? do you practice it?
4. How to achieve the dissolution of the self in writing or in music to really say something or say in a better way?
5. An exiled object, out of context, magnifies and transforms its meaning when placed in another environment, other qualities emerge in it, so it happens with being a foreigner?
6. Do you have allergies to any food or to anything of the world?
7. What do traveling means to you?
by Guadalupe Galván
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9. |
Pepe
02:53
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First, I didn't know that the word for them was opossum. When you wrote it to Brian I thought it was a word game with possum and opposite. Then I see this video and i see their complex beauty. They are so rat looking but I don't feel the same as like rats. Anyway. I remember a short story for kids. It is this dad opossum and baby opossum and he is teaching to his son to pretend to be dead to defend himself of others but the baby can't stop laughing and he tells him and says: No te rías, Pepe! (Don't laugh, Pepe!) and that's the name of the story: “No te rías, Pepe!” Sometimes Brian and I repeat this phrase out of context: “No te rías, Pepe!” That's all.
by Guadalupe Galván
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10. |
17 Deer
05:56
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I was not running late for work,
which is usually when I see
such miracles — sights
that dare me to quit my job
and slip through a door promising
permanent residence in dreams.
But today I was on schedule.
I left my house, put on my ear muffs
for the first time this winter
and rode toward the chilly sun.
I turned left behind the supermarket,
rode past the corner where cats
hold court and saw a man sweeping
his patch of street. Just beyond him,
I was forced to pause
as a slow parade of 16 or 17
neighborhood deer gracefully
retraced a narrow path
that hundreds of years of concrete
cannot erase for the sake of
aphasia. Silence, except for the ephemeral
press of hooves into printed soil.
I watched the winter sun shape
their amber fur. Muscles twitching
at invisible insects. Pivoting ears
reading an other world of other threats.
None glanced at nor saw me.
They displaced a different air.
Each leg placed
in place after place — implying motion.
I considered joining them,
cutting off my human skin
to reveal the shining flow
of my dappled pelt, but that
would surely make me late for work.
Also, I had not been invited —
and poetry has taught me
to not presume my welcome.
But if I have not come here to enter there,
what is all this impossibility for?
I sense it’s a gift to witness
without interrupting. A question
not obliging answers. A sight to share
with a friend whose syllables
facilitate such visions.
Happy Birthday Lupita
by Jerry Gordon
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11. |
Tight Rope Walker
04:15
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a true tightrope-walker
on a rope
above the clouds,
walking an unbreakable thread, with open arms
making music and me,
eagerly,
listening and watching
the heights from my seat
on the edge of my chair
excitement and rushing
to pay for a ticket again
to see the act again
a true tightrope-walker
up above the clouds
the muses keep the wire tight
we’re balanced on our doubts
moving step by step
on this unbreakable thread
open arms waving
up beyond the dead
and me eagerly listening
and me eagerly watching
the heights above my seat
on the edge of my chair excitement rushing
to buy another ticket
and see the act again
by Guadalupe Galván
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12. |
Take Back Song
02:20
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You have made such beauty here.
You beautifully hit the object
and you didn’t stop, trusting it to teach you
the music the object’s muses guided you
and the object to making — moment by moment.
I can feel that beautiful fragility of
concentration and trust and
freedom from expectations. And then
your voice used the poem like a sail boat
gliding over the rise and flow of the music.
My eyes filled with love as I listened. My muses
danced in their cages and stirred their fires
with excitement to hear a rebirth of poetry
take song back from the musicians
who have strangled it for so long.
by Jerry Gordon
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