Embedded

Red sunlight streaks across the morning sky
Wild blood burns love down our veins.

Death dreams
a bare woman faces
as her shadow subsides
where the page drowns in
puddles of black ink.

Fruit blossomed into juicy prickly pears
and flowers bloomed purple-pink feather petals.

We are frayed characters
who shimmer and disappear
in the movement of the day
in the glimpse of a moment.

Quiet moment…
a beat before the words
are written when we are a
mere droplet on a cobweb…
when poets murmur, we
become embedded in the lines.

Middle Noise

A perplexing task
listening to what people are saying
Obstructed by the flotsam
that riddles the grey matter.
Matter seems to be at the heart
of what intrigues me today.
What matters?
Can you see the forest from the trees?
Not right smack in the middle of a lesson.
Not in the middle of a sentence.

Asleep on the couch
Body stretches
length-wise
Limbs spill over.

Randomness of melancholy
thoughts strum the skin
on a city sidewalk

White noise does not touch when
a thin-skin membrane wards
off the onslaught of battering life

Responding

Frida created scaffolds out of bones, metal pins,
fragments of her past to piece herself together.
Careful her soul is showing.
Rub her raw skin down.

Dots of paint make the seascape shimmer
eyes skim the surface, oscillating clarity
Tension created with static environment
across the canvas.

Arcing brushstrokes between the sacred and the profane.

A man placed a wheel at the end of his 6-foot wooden
cross and passed me as he rolled it down the street.

A ten-foot photo of
a subject with hypodermic
needles piercing the length
of his arm in a cross-hatch pattern.
speak only of cold blue
stones and smooth green masks
in our social composure.

Quick-captured glimpses
of color through slotted
views in the subway
tunnel between DeKalb
and the bridge

An artist cuts out holes on large
pieces of cardboard and glues
amoeba-shaped wood
pieces onto it and calls it art.

We have barely survived our history.
Our art is responding…

Wistful Pleasure

Words hang from your shirttail
Stand still while I copy them down
it will only take a moment.

You leashed an I love you note
to the collar of my white shirt
then left behind your scent
on my pillow.

Pull away other-
wise you will see
a drowning in disguise.

A wistful pleasure vision
swirling time in your mouth
in the dying embers of
whispers and laughter.
Water trails create deep
trenches along our skin.

Soft Edges

Sound waves
make the air tremble…
Tumble in a soliloquy
leather tongue rasps
over the course
emissions of soma cravings.

Ebb and flow of a natural state
chains turn to strands
neither bind nor constrict.

In the darkness
the world spirals
into a smoky realm.
Words are wrapped
in soft harmonies

Reaching the ocean
seashells ration out
watery secrets
Not identity, essence.

Northbound

Fast paced steel careening
through dark tunnels
we forget we are carved
from the earth.

He carries three table
legs on the subway car.
Is there a table at home
balanced on one leg waiting
for the rest to arrive?

A young woman wearing indigo
stockings leans against an iron
column flamingo-like.

An older woman is a crimson
rose whose bloom has started
to fade. Her edges are curling
outward into a black silent fury.

He wears his suit in a careless way
the creases have long been pressed
in as he skims his New Yorker magazine.

The train jostles us on our journey
forward…into the darkness, north-
bound. She slumbers
against the wall, her lids flutter
with purple eye shadow as
she rests her eyes in a delicious nap.

Paper Thin

A young man walks
the path in a slanted way
His broken body folds
into a near collapse.

A body trembles
in fragmented beats
when paper-thin
slices of emotions
wash over her

A horse’s mane must be reigned in
with tight braids that won’t unravel.

Mami tried to save me
from my creative life
only to find a reply,
written in verse, in
the palms of her hands.

It’s a Portishead kind of moment
a low throbbing bass line
with a high thin voice singing
contrast to shelve the freeze-dried mind.

Red Earth

Crescent moon, red earth, fading light…
Hands of the ancestors extend in supplication
reach for the offerings of wildflowers and forget-me-nots.

Dia de los muertos…
exhume the memories.
To honor the dead: burn tobacco
pour shots of tequila
burn incense
have their names on lips
and remember
and remember
and remember
then release them

How do you show your respect?

A simple impulse to cut into the earth.

Melancholy words
tender contacts with experiences.
not static…instead it churns up
the next moment with or without us.

Burning Dawn

The coming rains quench
a taste of ashes when
wild flames expire.

A wave of longing
as strong as dark matter.

A vast sigh echoes across the ocean.

Ephemeral being
barely casts a shadow.

Your thoughts wander past your clit
and create combustible words
that tumble out and set
the landscape on fire.

October Day

A warm wind blows across
October and skirts
the fringes of senses
reminds me of a falling
day tasting the edges.

A young Japanese girl holds her grandfather’s
hand as she walks backwards
examining the world with trickster eyes.

Earth Tide Rising

Pretend to be human,
to be someone forming
in purple ink against
the night sky that
wore a full moon
around her neck.

Fold into the signal, blink in Morse code
decipher the message, text it instead,
flip the meaning upside down

Disembodied writer and myself dissipating.
Wild woods open their branched
path when the internal suffers.

She bites a ripe mango
tastes like the melting sun
as juice runs down
the sides of her mouth.
Exquisite kiss.

Autumn

Autumn leaves create damp
brown etchings on white concrete.

Weeping willows without leaves
look naked and defenseless.

Leaves float onto the subway platform
brilliant hues rain down upon us.

Bare branches warrant
a climb high above
the ground to build tree-houses.

A hawk on a high branch
watches and waits.

Heavy skies blossom
sheets of rain that
obscure the woods
and pound the earth
leaving behind gaping holes.

Cords

Better to leave
than to get caught up.
Better to duck head
into sand than stand
feeling foolish.
Better to dream
about spitting broken glass
than grind teeth into chips

Not roots but trunk
Not trunk but bark
Not bark but branches
Not branches but leaves
The sky blows away on
the next strong gust of wind.

Tamp down the matted
roots to sever the cords.

Across a Span of Days

She lets me notice
the back of her legs
when she walked
up the stairs.
I wanted to feel
her dark smooth
skin beneath my
fingertips. I dare not
cross that line.

Your language clicks
under your tongue
in the aftermath
of summer storms.

When did we break
contact and become
scavengers? Do you
know what it’s like
waiting for you across
the span of days?

You showed me strands
of your lonely soul
then hid away
in your blanket of grief.

I was her. She was me.
Back then in the past tense.

Entangled

Seldom do I hear
the whisperings of
the earth beneath me.
Seldom do I trust
the music that
resonates beneath
my skin. I question
the song as it breaks
into a thousand tiny pieces.

Succulent language
tumbles out in neat
phrases. Seldom
do I need convincing
of its own self-importance.

Wires tangles and notions
tremble in the dense night.
Too quick to capture….
too easily forgotten…reticent
to sit and lean quietly
against the night.

Fondling the common themes
that sway in the dead of night
when quiet lays open
with her legs parted wide.
Cheeks bloom red
with shame….as the Catholic
guilt burns knuckles with rulers.

Gather moss in your arms
please…show me your gentle ways
Gather moss in your mouth
so you can quiet the incessant chatter.

Pour a shot for the ancestors…
they are dying of thirst.
Pour a shot for yourself…
your troubles are barely contained.
We hold on too tight to our demons.

Fuck sake, kill the beast
the way you kill the lights.
Don’t ask for forgiveness
lest you can accept it.
This is not a psychological
exorcism drowning
in holy water being prayed
over by a righteous priest.
Casting demons…
casting dispersions…
casting for compliments.

We have lost the ability
to understand each other’s
quiet ruminations.

Spirals

In a sour country
she stares at
the dying sky
and wanders spiral
mountain paths
where she hungers
for a careless
word. A mild breeze
barely makes
her tremble,
barely leaves her
breath…less.
Time strips her
of her reason
and compresses her
into dense matter.

Scorch

Her words tumble
out like broken rocks
Heavy lies the tongue
when she forgets
the taste of affection.
She reclines against
the earth to cool
her flowering fury.
Otherwise everything
around her would burn.

Every stem, every green
budding flower would scorch.
She reverberates like aftershocks.
as she leaves behind
the woman she does not love
abandons her language
with its crushing
capacity in wild
red flames.
The land lies heavy
upon her chest.

Pressed

A cacophony
white noise
of voices.
Iron screeches.
Night presses
intimate contact
with strangers
unnecessary
language as
we are forced
upon each other
like captured pawns.

Open wide and take
a thick deep bite.
Sink teeth onto flesh
and taste a story.


All artwork and text © Copyright 2008 Liliana Almendarez unless indicated otherwise. All Rights Reserved. Any downloading, copying or use of images on this website is strictly prohibited without express written consent by Liliana Almendarez.

Lost Behind Cloud Cover

life slips away like silk cloth
between fingertips

light slips behind cloud cover
yet thin strands of light escapes
creating golden lines…

language causes damage
when open-mouth sounds
and staccato phrasing are loosely
spun together

she is a crystal of salt
in open water
drifting with the ebb and flow
careless with the simple life

she is a crystal of salt
in an open wound
burning through waves
careless with golden light strands

lost behind cloud cover
wavering with rains
drifting in open waters
burning away her bittersweet destiny

What I Know...

What I know of desire would fill a teaspoon.
Small doses, swallowed whole
Not enough to devour
Only enough to taste.

Sticky baked banana
from fingertips to lips
seducing you with sweets
licked up extra with a pink tip.

I’ve been told I am the type of woman
who would drown in a puddle of water.

Cold glasses of vodka martinis
chilled ‘til our teeth are set on edge
biting ice chips from the canister
on a sweltering July night.

What I know of her desire
scrapes language from my tongue
overcomes the flames in her bone marrow
creates dark expansive space between us
and does not leave orange-scented
tenderness behind

Instead…what’s left are mere shells
of dented armor…to be hammered.

Ritual

From the ocean floor
she watches the above
melting world
through rolling water
a quiet thunder
pulses through her body.

Holding her breath,
not drowning,
she lives
in a sweet surrender
drifts in stasis
an equilibrium
a watery embrace.

Forces align to hold her plain
releases the color pellet
her strongest awareness
breaks the surface
when lungs claw.

Salty eyes washes anew
clear perspective
grace
a divine
strengthening
influence
speaks
goddess
in a lonely sacred hour.

Alma

Sliver of moon
in a dark winter sky
Fingers trace
the outlines of my bones
tears down the walls
exposing
my yesterdays
living wounds bleeds
whenever salt penetrates.

Inarticulate cries
wrenched
when there is no mercy
with forgive me words
Quiet, quiet, quiet goes the song
in a tunnel
of strangled moans
from the ache
of I love you words
stuck
in my mouth
on the tip
of my tongue
I dare not
speak her name

The chalice
has been dry
for oh so long
not even a sip
to escape,
nor an answer
to unfold.

Have my bones
turned cold yet?
Has my skin
started to pale?

Having lived
in a common way
Forgotten on a shelf
in the back
of the closet
somewhere.
Yearnings so bottomless
it weakens.
In the presence
of she
who does not
carelessly end.
Shreds
my walls
mercilessly

What made her think
I had it in me to try?
Her languid woman’s song
in the place where there is no mercy
Where nothing is every too late
and the sound
in the back of my throat
is quiet, quiet, quiet.

Words Flame Open

She watches us with the lens
of an outsider looking on.
She is unhappy
with the lazy sunlight
and the large bumblebee
hovering nearby.

She gives away her sex
with her eyes but not to me.
Instead she gives me
pretty green picture-setting
and holds her words away.
I listen to the sound of
toddlers crying
in the distant playground.
I am too old to whine
but it doesn’t stop
the “but why?”
that escapes my mouth.

I lie down on the blanket
in the middle of the field
and watch clouds skim by
realizing this ending
will be too difficult to bear
she runs too deep within my skin.

And the children cry
in the distance
because they don’t
want to share.
Her pale thin skin
turns red but she is calm
as she seeks shade alone.

fractured

She abandons me tonight
feeling under-appreciated.

I’ll follow her until
she lets me ride her grace
Enslaves my imagination
Fractures me with a phrase
Covers me with dirty little secrets
Scrapes up the language
from my wandering heart and
presses them to the page.

She is the one who
prevents the walls
from tumbling in
Forbids me to walk
the streets alone
when she binds me
with metallic strings
as her wild lovesongs
burns rivers down my veins.

A Turn of Phrase

Winter leaves an ache
in the middle of the body
Radiates into a yellow-hazy night
bent limbs on bare trees

Want to race across the wide span
of a baseball field at full speed but
a gaggle of geese slumber on the path
sun will be up soon.

A hawk’s call arcs
through the ether
Sewer rats skim
the edges of shadows
Murky waters do not ripple
but gurgle
as a thin wind
glides across the surface.

This is what it means
to disappear
to sit on a ledge
and watch the dawn
pierce the skyline
Listen to the distant
traffic rumble
and waking echoes
of stirring lives.

Words Fail Me

I’ve lost my language
deep inside a pair of faded blue jeans
Hand delves deep, I come up with
a couple of dirty coins
and a slip of fortune cookie paper
“a thrilling time is coming
in your immediate future”.

If all things are created equal
why do I have a naked window?
A saffron-dyed bed sheet with
Indian motifs use to cover it.
It was supposed to be a happy color…
it’s not and I’m not.

Big gaping orbs
tease me out of my skin.
It’s been a long time
since I’ve danced naked and
eaten succulent juice
from cold prickly pears.

I get that I’m the one
who walked out.
I get that you’re the one
who’s considered the “hurt party”

But I’ve lost my words
inside your jacket,
the one you let me wear
that last time at the concert
The one with enough room
for my pack of cigarettes,
your eye drops,
stash of weed and
lipstick.
You told me you loved me
in a quick rush of words,
a crowded space,
bodies pressed too tightly
was the only thing holding me up.

There was no quick reply
No valley of twinkling lights
No orange-scented tenderness in return
And no reason why.

You’ve taken the bed sheet away
leaving behind a stark landscape
while the land spins
a little more slowly these days.

fragments

capture from another angle
off-the-beaten path
click shutter exposure
an image reversal

aspire to be unfolded and read
word-for-word uncoiled
yesterday pressed onto the page
mulled over and disclosed

desire to be ensnared
in a web of tender whisper-lies
a balmy undercurrent
pulling down

enslave the imagination
fractured phrases
clings like a measure of music
playing over and over

devour a morsel
consumed whole
a smooth continuous
engulfment.

Fever Pitch

My ardent devotion suffocates me.
Grasp with strained fingertips to
loosen it from around my neck.

It’s been too long since a deep wintry air
has filled my belly
to cool off the searing heat.

Dark expansive space
before my eyes
within this skin.

Too long since the rains
have come down to quench the fever.
The waters fold in.

The rains should wash away
this corrosive state
instead it scalds
leaving behind
tattered bits,
threads showing bare.

Caustic tongue holds my silence plain
Burgundy lips sealed tight
Quiet the intensity
Subdue the chaos

Tidbits

Desire cleaves to
sumptuous honey droplets

Clings like a measure of music
that plays over and over

Gathers smooth pebbles
place them in deep pockets

Collects slashes of color
from a textured painting

Press yesterday onto the page.

Not Coming Undone

Do not lean against her
a mere ball of unraveling string
she ties herself in knots
to keep from disappearing
as another strand unfurls.

Grace

She swallows her words
in slow syllables
against the sharp consonants
incremental slices.

She swallows whole
her need to be heard
chases it down with fiery brew
singes her tongue
numbs the rage
refrains from grasping
the person she once was.

Where did she lose her sleep?
Sweat slides down
between her breasts
head of steam from the iron
leaves beads of condensation
on her upper lip
back hand swipe
wipes away the wetness.

Her mind
writes away the aftermath
of the day before
month before
years ago

Memories gather like moths in her mouth
and storms forward
the afterlife of sorrow
smoothed over
gathers no dust
weathers the electricity
travels down her body.
After-thoughts churn
unsaid words,
unanswered replies
leaves deep grooves across her bones.