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Marco Valencia
35/M/NY


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  • Art Copyright Jimmy Ruska




    Nocturn


    Mood: The Usual

    Posted on 2010-06-22 15:16:51


       Low the sun
    Black strokes gives chase
    the stars stand sentinels

    Red the fire
    New moon waves edge closer
    Unseen but heard

    Warm her skin
    his arms a cloak
    Filled with restless yearning

    Sea salt and scent
    From skin to lips Her taste
    infused with its flavor

    Darkness broken
    Purple hues from out the horizon
    the waves at their feet awaken


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    Untitled Entry


    Mood: The Usual

    Posted on 2010-06-22 15:12:55


       Low the sun Black strokes gives chase the stars stand sentinels Red the fire New moon waves edge closer Unseen but heard Warm her skin his arms a cloak Filled with restless yearning Sea salt and scent From skin to lips Her taste infused with its flavor Darkness broken Purple hues from out the horizon the waves at their feet awaken
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    Untitled Entry


    Mood: contemplative

    Posted on 2008-05-08 22:54:34


       Is there beauty in the underbrush?

    Where October leaves become the feast of roots
    Where the worms toil like farmers under foot
    Where beetles and brethren gather unseen
    and make ready the dead, picking bones clean.

    What beauty there is in the underbrush!

    The roving earth miles and miles deep
    but on the shallows of its face life knows no sleep
    and each its part unknowing plays
    like cogs of a clock, in fixed turns, unwitting they stay

    The beauty of the underbrush is in the order of things.

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    Untitled Entry


    Mood: The Usual

    Posted on 2005-11-29 10:59:38


       Seattle was cloudless for me.
    the naked sky
    reflecting Autumanl hues

    The trees wore the ebbing fire
    in their leaves and the breeze
    climbed the hills brushing

    along the strange fauna
    and old buildings of Capital Hill
    I shivered with nastalgia

    for a place I just met
    resonating in its frequency
    with no effort at all

    The red arms, like cathedral arcs,
    in their strength made me bold
    with reverence like a fever pearl

    of red luster whose rarity
    in my heart had grown
    faint but prized

    The hills and distant mountians,
    have come home with me
    Stow aways in my verse

    I gather them to me
    Like the reaper
    the October Harvest

    They will keep me this winter

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    the Cabin


    Mood: The Usual

    Posted on 2005-11-06 15:41:05


       The cabin, a cylinder partitoned to accomadte 150 travelers was a one class seater with equal privlidge for all concerned; the one equality money can by. It struck me that the wings span, at 111 ft, was merely thirteen times that of a bald eagles carrying 93500 it out lifts the eagle by 1:3500, so I wondered what would happen if you strapped a rocket to the eagles ass like in toy story, could I get a free ride to washington? What? it was 6:30 in the moring with only 4 hours of sleep!

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    to the airport


    Mood: Thinking...

    Posted on 2005-10-25 10:21:49


        The airport had changed a great deal since I was a teenager working a concession service for TWA. It is a wondrous maze of names, trains roads and planes.

    First off, TWA went the way of the dinosaurs, with facets of its former self seen in other species; Jet Blue now occupies its old haunt in JFK. The international flights building is closed but the domestic building now serves both functions. I have always loved the architecture of the international building and would sneak a peak, when I worked there, to take in its cold confident lines. Now it is a hallow ghost of a lost ideal.

    Then there is the Airtrain. Some consider it a failure because it is undercut by buses and taxi's and its five dollar fare makes people jittery, but I couldn't resist, having seen it rise up from scratch (It was a choice between a 15 minute cab ride or an 45 minute J train to the airtrain excursion). The five dollar fare didn't scare me (though I am not much more then poor). When construction started years ago I heard the sound of the earth pounders in the distance from my apartment not too far from the Van Wyck. I saw it progress from pillars to beams and then rails (Friends of mine help make it work and made good livings off of the ghost overtime they handed out with favoritism.). I read the papers when the first train car tests resulted in an accident that took a workers life (they thought for sure that would end the project). They debated its merits in public hearings. They protested its coming with signs and picketers. They complained about the noise of construction, cracked walls, and shifting foundations. None the less, as if Robert Mosses himself were doing the building, it was built. What they neglected to do is rebuild the J trains stop in the caverns below the airtrain’s Jamaica station, so that the shock of the two worlds wouldn't be so great. That J train’s station has to be one of the worst in the city. The walls are barely standing, with many of the tiles falling off and a sense of decay overwhleming. The comparison is disquieting. The other is glass and steel. Escalators and shimmering floors. Open and free space with fresh bright clean air. The caves below seem like a permanent cloudy day and the other, a state of constant sunshine. Oh, it’s sad that the utopia that the fifties dreamt of has to be built in pieces over the skeletons of the past. It feels like the supposition of one layer on top of another like the layers of Rome or Troy.

    The ride to the airport was trippy. The train in airtrain is missleading. It barely sounds like a train. Its movements are not chronicled by the sound of steel wheels over tracks but rather a wispy thrush of air being parted by forward movement. The J train on the other hand, is a clunker of staccato rapping humbled by the elegance of the airtrain. It took some getting use to before I stopped expecting the airtrain tracks to sound like subway tracks.

    I went from the mundane depressed economic vista of the neighborhoods that saddle the Van Wyck to the intricately wondrous concrete infrastructure rebuilt around the airport to accommodate the airtrain's 10 stations that stand like Sentinels at every terminal and dominate the scenery even beyond the air planes and terminals themselves (another disquieting comparison). I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of how artificial this introduction to New York must be. From the look of JFK, a new comer might think the beast was misrepresented in media everywhere. Believe me, it’s not. It is like the human mind itself, brilliant and flawed in every respect.

    The airtrain docked at terminal five. The double doors opened. I took an elevator to the enclosed bridge linking the station with the terminal assisted by the futuristic looking motorized walk way and then down an elevator again into the open glass building once called TWA domestic flights terminal five and onto a plane across the country to Seattle.

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    Planes


    Mood: The Usual

    Posted on 2005-10-20 08:55:21


       I'm off to Seattle for the weekend. I've been celebrating my 30th birthday in verse and life for two weeks now (the 19th was the official date). Seattle is the last stop on this party bus. I don't know about the space needle, I've never been that kind of tourist, but I will be looking for poetry under every rock. If you know of any let me know.

    Planes, not nearly angels, nor even solitary birds, they're more like gas tanks on a slingshot with skirts serving drinks and monkeys eating peanuts. I wouldn't bitch if I were the pilot and it were an F14, Seattle in an hour and half sounds dam good to me, but alas, I am but one of many, determined not to shake in my seat when a cold draft makes a choppy curve out of a straight line or the thousand variables of moving parts calls up the neurotic side of imagination like all those things we imagine in the dark. No, I'll be cool even when the oxygen mask's fall and the plane takes a dive. Just kidding, I'll be screaming like a bitch.

    See you if I get back, hahahahahhahahaha.

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    I Am Here


    Mood: Thinking...

    Posted on 2005-10-06 22:41:20


       I've worked so I can barely see
    And I ask myself why?
    Why is it 4 am
    And your still at this clay
    No closer to happiness
    Then midnight
    Or 5 pm
    Yesterday

    The mood sits at my feet
    Not like a dog
    But like a crack in my shell
    A breach,
    Beyond which, a vacum
    Where the air goes,
    So you have better seal it off
    Mr. Space Cadet
    Before I stop creating

    I am here...

    I am here
    Because there is a picture in my mind
    That has got my hands by the balls
    Twisting my fingers into knots
    (Painful little cramps)
    With a hunger to make it real.

    I am here because my chest hurts
    And my eyes tear
    When thoughts become
    A tangible reality;
    A poem
    A painting
    A sculpture

    Or
    Athletic
    Kinetic
    Locomotion
    By pedal
    At 50
    Kilometers
    An hour.

    I am here.
    Because I want
    To feel
    Reeeeaaaaal!

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    Untitled Entry


    Mood: Thinking...

    Posted on 2005-10-05 13:02:11


       The city in myst with Dark clouds
    Heavy and over head.
    It seems coo now
    In the Autumn turn
    Where From a distance
    Its life is obscured
    But in its middle
    It pulses still.

    Among the spires and towers
    We walk along
    Humbled
    By money cathedrals
    Into submissive form

    But pagan rebels
    Sit at the empires door
    Threatening to topple it over
    To plunder its core.

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    Van Gogh


    Mood: The Usual

    Posted on 2005-10-01 21:24:30


       I think about him. Sometimes I think about his pain and how it gave him a bitter joy. I think about the delicate balance between the pleasure of creation as an artist and the pain that can acts as a toxic nunclear fuel for art.
    It's not like the sun, with fusion pouring light into our sky, it's more like that dirty nunclear power plant up the river threatening to blow if someone falls asleep or trips the wrong switch. It is fission threatening to run wild.
    The pain makes beautiful things. I call this beautiful agony. But how much agony is too much? And how much beauty is enough?
    I wish I could have sat with him the way Gaugain did. Write him letters from afar. I would say to him "stay a while longer. This pain, this pain is the pain of genesis. Let it give birth to something else and let this new life be the inspiration for another tommorrow. Put the gun down! lets paint today."

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