I WANT A MAGNOLIA TREE IN THE TOMORROW OF MY BREAKFAST

 

Lyrical Prose About You

The days are fleeting moments, which occur without permission and without the need for warnings. One after the other, marked on the calendar, obeying its becoming, becoming, happening between the arrival of the sun and the setting of the moon, in the cities, in the neighborhoods, in the streets, they are reversed in the time that expectations cease, in other ayers. I suspect that the last hope of an innocent person is broken between a yesterday and a tomorrow that time forgets to promote. It was nighttime and all the paths opened up like magnolias in the moonlight, a stabat matter accompanying the background music, deep in his shallow eyes of water. A blackbird drinks in the landscape, a man turns his back on the future. And we all got stuck in a two-way street.  Only the raisins, the walnuts and the slings fit on last night's table, my glass stripped of liqueurs, the shutter open to a deep night of stars and the morning light fulfilling the cycles, where you left that magnolia-colored hope open, the cigarette sending signals to an ethereal ship that waits,  The dream is covered by a blanket of feathers, and if the feathers are not covered, they untie old wounds. It was a night, like all previous nights, where everything the table could hold. One drawback was left in the ashtray, already stripped of its ashes. It was a catch. That was the "no" that had happened, although it was not explicit and did not come in headlines. The traffic lights closed to traffic, showing the dual carriageways occupied by other interlocutors. In his pocket, crumpled and white handkerchiefs, like torn sheets, full of inviolate characters and secrets. Time allowed for everything, even a glimpse of the tomorrow that had come to pass. There, in the choice, between yesterday and tomorrow, there were other no's that would convert into doubts. A moment sequestered for an insistent gaze fixed on the frame, only the magnolias stood open and innocent in the dark night. And they opened perfumes and achievable promises. A trail of stars in her hair, a half-smile accustomed to the shiver of cold between the feather blanket and her skin, her eyes shallow with water and a spilled liquor, a spoonful of honey for the angels. Don't remove the Christmas towels as they circle the last drops of the festivity, cheerful and barefoot. The games started with the crumbs of people that lodged between the retina and the pausing of eyelashes. I want a magnolia tree on my breakfast porch. Taste the fleshy leaves filled with unchallenged hieroglyphics of humanity. 

I dare to allow you introspection, white is condescending. It is the slamming of doors, the final outcome that was urgent and that came now, like a heavy door, with a millennial jamb and a clenched fist, echoing the grand finale, c'est finis, it's over. Smile at half-mast, gaze hanging on the flesh and the aroma of the poem of the future on the coffee table, yesterday is always celebrated between closed walls and doors. May there be no wind blowing gales in the feelings that he hides, between one page of the past and the other that will have to be printed in an anchored cubicle of the future. From that time just expected that no one knows that there is, if there will be, a framed gargoyle, a photo that spends its rays on his smile, that only his soul knows how he feels! The papers are not lawful, they are used to sign contracts, but not to convoke the council of Gods. They, there on Olympus, will remain to wipe away the tears that occur on your face. Issuing bills of exchange for the smiles you want to have for others. The attachments, the windows, the curtains, the tea, all quieted in the dawn of oblivion. A noitibó bird that rounds the lyrics of the sharp f's, a verse that prepares for the final apotheosis and, without great external composers, the firefly appears, with its bioluminescence lands between the empty glass and the home of the oblivion that it screams so that it cannot be heard. On the other side of the river, a body slides the water, there are no violent waves. Everything comes to you in a slow discontinuing, a poetic waltz, a firm voice of silence. Not a word, not a syllable is heard from that mouth that remains today. Dry leaves fall, perpetuating and pushing the season into total hibernation. I would like to be like the chrysalis, without noise or surroundings, neither present nor now. Only the promise of tomorrow, when everything breaks again in seconds and minutes and hours, rushing to the foam break. A sundial in the stone of other ages. He was a chrysalis, a hibernating bear, a breath contained in the glottis. It was a dawn that woke up all the previous dawns, that they called sleep a lie, it was a lie and it was night and it was day, this dawn full of whys and why nots, all the no's in that stuffy snag. Yesterday you screamed, today not a sob. Yesterday the pain and today the scar, yesterday you were you and today you are still you, keeping yourself anchored in that emptiness of words, in a whisper omitted, concealed, whipped by reason. Shiu shiu shiu, time hears our prayers, time, that entrepeneur who dedicates himself to the juggling of amusing brains and weighing hearts. Shiu, not one more chrysalis can stop what the future will bring. I don't see, you don't see, but here it comes, arranging and sorting the commas and dots on the i's we don't want to see. Keep it on the shelf, don't rectify anything, keep it and shiu. When the butler of the ages arrives, in his little Masonic apron, you will laugh and I will ask for boiled water because the magnolia will fall into the cup, its hot flesh will melt the porcelain walls, the hang glider that holds my fingers and I, quietly, will enter the house of your silence, the boiling liquid, the absence of the kiss of your lips biting the edge of the servant,  As you watch the clouds drift away from the horizon, the stern line of the armchair and railing, My hand resting on this time but my arms hanging on your shoulders, on your smile that continues half and half full-mast. The enigmas happen even when the cold descends and sticks to the walls of the stone, engulfing itself with moss, in the synthetic moments when I see you turn your head and your profile sustains me at dawn. The cat peeks at the shop window and the kettle screams, waking up the silences that you keep castrated, closed in on you, you who are the name of all things, who come from the auguries of some fait divers, who cloister the sorrows and agonies in Kafkaesque chrysalides. One day, you crossed my beach and the ocean gave you away, the stones mixed with the algae and dunes of other dawns when you didn't need to keep the silences in the glottis or in the pockets of life, or in the classic goblets of the magnolia. Dreams thrive even when silenced. Chrysalis dreams. My life was arranged like an orderly labyrinth, where you know the path of dreams, where you keep the string between your fingers, already stuck and marked by the force of hiding them. I withdraw from the scene, I invent words that outline corners, my dreams are skeins that draw paths between your gaze resting on the landscape and the waves of your hair, or the curve of your shoulders so that my arms can fit. They are quicksands, however, so it is with the clay that carves out the tomorrow that you try to close in a distant yesterday, complying with the measures of the distant in the stagnation.Shiu shiu, quiet your mind, speed up the clock and don't even try to stop what has to be. And that yesterdays who were not fulfilled or were fulfilled wrongly, stylize tomorrow in this negated way. You get manumission from yourself. The kettle no longer holds any cry and the magnolia's body meets the boiling water and mixes, composes itself into another form of being. I chew the petals of pain with the scent of magnolia. You look at me askance, afraid that my glaring presence will force you to leave the position of hermit. You grow in the cup, your thoughts volatize contents that you left unexpressed and you no longer have a hand or foot in the storm that threatens to collapse with your silences. You need a ground on which to vomit, to separate the wheat from the chaff, as the chrysalis of your dream needs cocoon, as the magnolia needs the earth and the rain, the sun and the moon to season what it will harvest afterwards. Then all the balconies will be to the west of us, but on ours will shine like a star, that magnolia tree lying in the sea of your uproar. You will then allow the coming out of the cocoon, the annulment of hidden restraints and manifestations,  you will first learn the whisper that you choked in the glottis of time, then, after that, you will learn to say I am another, and I came to be that other that I have been keeping, I am not of this time, I am not from here, but I manifest my wings, breaking locks, from rumination to flailing, swimming to the east of my life, I will learn the cry that shelters between the throat and the ribs,  I'll be raw. Then, you will say, then, my balcony still keeps all the moments in which you have broken, you will say, you have broken the limits of me, within me, I am the one you know completely, the one who blooms the winter of all the winters kept, destroying everything that hides me and that is mine and that is to be lived. Maybe a balcony can define all balconies, I try to draw the balconies of the world in the one I draw for you. A balcony overlooking the sea, dressed in a porch and low flowers, a balcony crowned with pots with seeds, where the dreams I want to flourish are arranged. Two flights of stairs to a quaker, where white magnolias bloom, where the sun will tinge with malice the breakfast I want to have with you, you will say, after a night without twilight, without fireflies or sunsets. Where I will put the petals of this flower in your cup so that you can drink tomorrow with me. With me, you'll say. And with me it is you with all that you are, with your dreams feared of sunshine, with your conjectures contemplated, where the catch becomes an intermittency hanging between your smile that is torn at half-mast and placed whole in the fruit and in the toast, in the coffee and in the future. It is from these breakfasts that the world will triumph, my world, I will say. And you shall say no more. Sitting on the balcony, between wisteria and pansies, you will leave yesterday's fears in the kitchen container, for the chimney and the smoke extraction to take what is still left of the bad days. The sea will soften your hair, stirring the napkins that you will keep suspended under the dessert plate. Half moon of melon, orange, biscuit, your dexterous fingers around me, your smile and your speech. Thou shalt not silence any more. I will say to you, do not be silent about who you are, and God, who is God in you, will suspend all doubts and blossom all the magnolia trees in the gardens, in all quarters. 

Everyone will hear this song, everyone will sing its refrain, everyone will smile because blessings can come down to earth on such a morning, when the sun dares to tear the cold from the walls of the labyrinth and the string tied to your fingers will dispel misfortunes and anguish, it will be accompanied by a ballad without groans or weeping, without nightmares and without glory,  The high tide overlaps with the gerund of the world. And you are reborn on a sargassum morning, with no large estates and no catches. No doubt will cloud the landscape, perhaps two or three cumulus hanging in the sky, the ball is over, the work is finished. And at the right end of the canvas, a strong trunk gives texture to breakfast, five moist white magnolias from the night before reach the golden-yellow that will merge with the blue and green of the landscape. And after building the porch, the shed completes the screen, Two careless chairs arranged around the table, and leaning against the railing your stiff and living body looks at the ship that crosses the sea, while you feel my hands around your chest, behold, the last drawback that I brought from eternity, lies dead far from the screen, where we stand, embraced by the blessed silence. And not one more comma saddens what comes, perhaps ellipsis where the blessed magnolias fit, the kiss you owe me and the hug that will take place on the screen.