Paintings: Humberto Calzada
|Years of Hope
What my 1731 Stradivarius cannot play, my ears will invent.
My catalogue of inventions is worthless in the absence of
I came for the music, but I stayed for you.
My tenuous landscape is nothing but layer upon layer of paper.
I sleep on the faultline and dream of being swallowed.
What good is the dark without music?You are as punctual as winter light.
©Humberto Calzada: Years of Hope, 1990
To the one who sets a second place at the table anyway.
To the one at the back of the empty bus.
To the ones who name each piece of stained glass
To anyone convinced that a monologue is a conversation
To the one who loses with the deck he marked.
To those who are destined to inherit the meek.
The mime troupe is in town
again. They want to
This is where the house went up in flames.
This is how we walked away, trying to salvage nothing.
That's us, building our separate houses in the aftermath.
There were ashes to be swept away, years of debris,
Here we are, looking out of
our respective windows at the
Of all the illusions, forgetting is the most dangerous.
Suppose we count backwards and nothing happens.
The palm reader says I live on intuition.
Something tells me you're home for good, your unpacked
This morning I paid off the mortgage. By the middle of
Indiscriminate wishes determine the length of a season
Escape has such a final ring to it. Let's just say we're
For better or for worse, ours is a variant of a rather
One lethargic word crawls out of your reach and confronts you.
Each breath unfolds with intentions of its own.
Even the slightest preoccupation with absolute stillness
Everything is measurable.
Salvation is a deliberate leap into the eye of a cataclysm.
Believe like a man and you will drown in a drop of faith.
Believe in nothing and the first rains will level your house.
In a matter of minutes I destroyed the journal I had
A man in love soon learns to be unfaithful to himself.
I changed my name and taught myself not to answer when
It became obvious that accidents are worth repeating.
Each day I woke a little closer to the sea with little
I bought a shirt to match the earth of each new country
In countries with nothing but overabundance, language
are not always preceded by years of silence. More than
An arsenal of threats is dismantled.
The hands of the adversary begin to look surprisingly
For the agnostics, a man with cancer in his throat heals
Those most susceptible to nostalgia are reminded of the
An arsenal of memories, long abandoned, is discovered and
Familiar voices reappear. In proportion to the sky, they
©1995 Dionisio D. Martínez