Flechazo + limited edition signed print ‘Mercado’

Mil flechazos.  A thousand pressed flowers live long in your pages staying warm.  A gentle touch somehow paused.  Is there such a thing as a gentle eye? What softens it and how does it glow?  Here a thousand times walking broken sidewalks and yellow walls painted orange in the street lights. The mountain air at night. Teenagers dancing through the shadows of telephone wires curling in the streets. Woke in the morning and walked along the coast, sea salt spray in my lungs, there was a tired horse in the valley. Half lame and scarred with an open sore and flies buzzing around her but standing true and proud. Resilient against the scorching rays.  Stood there for a few moments noticing each other. Hello friend, I mean you no harm.  Now I must go.

Further on, a hawk standing on the edge of a cliff, holding it’s wings open to the wind. We are there. I didn’t know a field could turn into a volcano but you taught me.  I didn’t know that the best day to look for flowers was Wednesday… maybe it isn’t, but it is my favorite.  A woman in heels walking through the empty square, leaves falling in the wind, another breeze, then a rainstorm.  It could be hot. It might get cold.  New leaves holding puddles on the wet cement.  From the heart you can make it anywhere.

The highways are smooth and graceful. A silver grill shines behind and the brights flash.  Two cars passing each other racing, the Toyota doesn’t stand a chance.  One curve and then the next. Another hawk flies over the front windshield quickly soaring away. Two eyes under the wings. The little Toyota finally gives way to the edge. A shoulder to cry on.  A friends embrace.  I was wet. The windows are open. I love the desert sand hills when they wind and flow in kind of a horizontal zig zag just off the ground.  Forty five degrees, curving with the coast.  Fingers dry and hot when you hold them out of the window in the two lane wind.  You can either go this way or that way.  Earth wave.

Hot rust chain link between my fingers, knuckles white, holding up pushing back and forth, collapsing into the sagging sheet with my forehead and hair scraping the metal.  Looking at what is to come. Looking for what is in front of me. Press on. When that blue light comes up… that soft heavy blue and fades into the pink light pink. Hands are moving up and down thinking about that color and holding that sunset with the back of my eyeballs swallowing my brain resting my skull on my spine.  Looking up overhead the loves and memories. Fly. Bye.

The opera is open every day.  Pull back the curtains.  I hope that I have the same dream as you.  Lay them down in piles on the beds.  Plastic tarps covering the floor behind trucks and buckets overflowing like a field of wildflowers ready to take a walk.  There is a warmth in the petals and sellers.  In competition with each other but never savage. You can not be savage with a flower.  A butterfly will not give you the best price. You know me more than I imagine.

A map of the states drawn in my mind, my path, my friends and strangers made unstrange. Flowers blooming and fading, discovering new paths. New hours of the day. New lights. Old shadows. Sailing upwards overhead on the sunbeams sliding away on the mountain face to a new day straight through the crashing waves.  It rolls up hissing loudly, covering your toes and legs.  A chill over shoulders and they are flying right at you. A hawk flies overhead.  The flowers are blooming after the rain.

The bright white cream fading into pale green cerulean blue.  Swimming all day in her grandmothers dress. It has lasted a long time. At last, the storm finally passes and leaves the silence of bugs and birds in the trees.  Wind shaking off the drops.  We can keep driving and find somewhere for dinner.  Maybe we can just cook.  I’m sick of eating out. I am sick of to-go containers.  Sliding glass door holds the reflection of what you are looking for.  Keep it closed or open, if you like the breeze.

Almost ancient church bells ring and the echo spreads through the window panes and keyholes.  Over the kitchen counters and dark grills smoking with grizzle and the scent of fish bones, pork fat and lime. Good thing about it is you always know what time it is.  The next hour. Rooftops in the afternoon with laundry swaying in the wind.  Someone is around but still needs a little more time to dry.  A lonesome toy without anyone to play. Folding takes time but it is worth the trouble to do it well.

It is in the hands so many times, always really.  Every crack, break, scar and vain.  Where have they been and what they have seen are all on display and under the nails.  Look closely. What have you had to set loose and what have you forgotten?  Remember when they used to let balloons fly into the air?  Never you, I will never forget you.  Nothing to wither and fade. They are all here, all here for good.

Chapter 1. Flechazo

txt by John Reagan