"Being and what is exist because they are without thought… "
Los Angeles Southwest College
Darren Cifarelli is a writer and poet. In his daytime job, he is Chair of the Department of English and Foreign Language at Los Angeles Southwest College, where he also acts as Academic Senate Secretary.
Daytime Weed Dreams
I She approaches from behind,
Standing (still standing),
And slowly passes her hand
Through my hair. That is all.
The sun moves on its course
And soon a radiant sky
Will unfold over South Central
Announcing both a false alarm
And shared pity.
This brief episode makes its glancing comment
On the love affair we’ve written
In the margins of a romance novel.
Every movement, a miracle of understatement;
Every moment, a succession of asides.
The subtleties are not decorations but the essence:
Incidents that mirror quick ideas and impulses,
Momentary feelings, and reflect her:
The beautiful and electrical heroine
Of a mystery novel without a solution.
In a telescopic compression of many years with repeated shots, we create our own reality in one-hour increments, recurrent like waves at the beach: motel mirror, towel, sink, faucet water, soap and bed—and then enveloped by beauty.
A conversation through a closed bathroom door or murmured pillow talk—anti-verbal conversation—remembered images, emotive, struggle to do more than words can do.
The glittering girl, out of breath,
Delicate and exquisite,
At the washhouse waiting in the car,
At the nail shop talking on the phone,
Driving 8 miles to get the good pizza at 7-Eleven on El Segundo.
Waiting in the spot in hooker heels and denim shorts with a white tank top on.
Black pearls and lightly-lotioned brown shoulders and thighs.
A footnote to a jazz soundtrack enveloped by beauty:
Distant cars, raindrops, sharp sudden breaths.
Being and what is exist because they are without thought:
Our life and its forgetting are an improvisation against meaning,
Against interpretation: subtle overtures
That require extensive annotations to enrich the story,
A miracle of understatement.
Her shapes and emotions are projected on me in an empty room littered with glasses and bottles and choked ashtrays, wondering eternally where she spent the night. Friction turns to recognition and awareness, waking during the night, her absence in the bed, empty room, self-doubt, seconds ticking away.
Consequently, daytime weed dreams
Assume the contours of midnight at the 108 motel room
Where our eroticism substitutes action for thought.
She’s a painting, still life and baroque in surface and texture,
A painting come to life,
Its epiphanies gracious and intimate.
Recriminations bloom like shrapnel, actions like crimes.
All the result of an attempt to rationalize a situation
Utterly without hope, vanishing like water in the sand:
She flickers and disappears, reappears.
Far away, slowly flooded with light, on a barren chain of rocks, solitary figures act out tangential encounters in silhouette before a calm, bright sea; closer views of waves battering rocks fluctuate between poignancy and barrenness.