Flavigula

Spanish pop music drools from the speakers overhead as I wait to leave this place, to leave and hobble on feet which feel like pegs towards home. Once I arrive, I plan to create, in a pan of popping oil, palacinky. Palacinky are very tasty, especially when prepared with the diligence of a true Eastern European cook such as myself. That is about enough on that topic.

Someone told me today that it will take some time before I get up to speed on understanding that poetry-stuff. I suppose my response to his poem provoked that – and a purposefully silly response it was … indeed. If all of the poetry I have written of late was water, almost every camel on God’s Green Earth would dehydrate. That’s a fact.

Na Shledanou.

Anoche era atroz. Cuando mañana o esta noche esté lo mismo, voy a estallar. Tuve que utilizar casi toda de mi paciencia para quedarme razonable. Si otra vez ocurriera, se mataría.

Somehow, it is much more satisfying to be bitter in other languages other than English.

Off into another sunny day in Donostia, Pais Vasco, España. An optimistic sweetness sickens my departure from this place. The bright, orthogonality of the room suddenly becomes dim and sulking, leaning on me as if to crush and digest.

I must explore the remaining green areas of the city before my departure and photograph them since my memories shall surely wane.

Half of me is a corpse and the other half wants to keep dragging the whole forward until some cure for partial ressurection is discovered. A pill? A potion? Yoga?

Mis dias son testarudos.