A Piece about Space

A physical space, four walls, some windows
Mine. My own. It was up there, on the last floor
overlooking Inwood park. A studio, enough room
for a bed (that converted to a sofa), a red desk with
its red chair (facing out the largest window), four book
shelves and two media shelves heaped high,
spilling over with music and books.

Today, on this day, my space is down there, beneath the earth,
a basement room without windows. It is dark, very dark and I lose
track of time. It encases the same desk and the same bed, that's all
it can manage. My footrest is a stool where my fat black cat sleeps.
My desk is heaped high with books, files, papers and a laptop, hidden
beneath precarious piles. It's mine, my very own but I have to creep
around late at night so as not to wake up the folks. It’s a tight fit as
the whole house rests over my head.

A notebook and a pen is all that's needed. The room,
the physical space is a luxury. Time is a luxury.
Steal moments, and hours, and seconds, and minutes
between classes, between jobs, between sleep
to gather up nomad phrases that ruminate
and hum in the background. Pick, pick, pick the fruit
of the tree. Take nibbling bites, gaping bites, hoping to encase
the phrase before it drops away, back into the landscape.


All artwork, photos, and text © Copyright 2008-2009 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.

Sing into the blank woods

do not expect answers
on high holy days.

I wonder about you
as I write letters in my head.
Have you received them yet?

Do you hear the noise pursuing us down the page?

Between us there is perpendicular space.

Portals without keys keeps you at a distance.

This is what we look like when anger burrows holes in our hands.
This is what you look like when you’ve swallowed your head whole.

Your pious ways reminds me of passion wrapped up in wooly blankets.

Cookies in ziplock bags
break apart into rocky bites

Empty apartments are seeking buyers.

A writer uses buttery prose across the page.

I cross out your name every time I think of you.
My page is filled with Xs.

This above all else is not about you for a change,
instead it’s abut me not thinking of you changing.

I come up against your language,
the camera is pointed away.

Gritty days have devoured your smile.

We ride elevators holding our breath.

There is a convex curve to your prose, untamed in its ways.

Massive data flows in chunks filling up hardware.

A frozen shoulder aches in cold weather,
something to do with how we hunch for warmth.

Perhaps I long to write better when I’m sleeping.

I remain stormy in my words because connections get in the way.

Some careless writer catches palindromes in the preface of essays.

Your thoughts mangle steel in bursts.

The papyrus tatters.

I wrote about this place, about this time without soul
only remnants, pieces of what it is, what’s the what?

We came home tattered at the edges, drunk, and listening to music that sing in our bones. You forgot how to dance with heart.

It explains the hole in the wall the size of your fist.
It explains the song beneath your mouth unable to crow.

You are sultry only because you are stupid.

You can bring your dog over, I’ve had my shots.

Crystal structures do not shatter in reverse order.

You are my destiny so stay in the corner.
I like your voice from here ‘cause I know where it’s coming from.

The mermaids have private thoughts,
I think we’ve intruded upon them.

We have a weakness for each other
but your coda of love is syncopated

You are obscured in the constant speed heading in one direction
and my path is a steep threshold waiting for me to cross over.


All artwork, photos, and text © Copyright 2008-2009 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.

Untitled #14

How deep sorrow feels, beneath wet feet
on wood planks, splinters off
into various directions, composes
single tones of unequal measures.

How deep guilt clings, beneath red hands
on warm skin, impales,
weakening momentum, yields
forward velocity into a fixed point.

How deep desire sinks, beneath dry tongue
on thick lips, leads off
anywhere, spiraling inward
fluid elements have an angular velocity.

All artwork, photos, and text © Copyright 2008-2009 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.