roots

just a short little note today, although this post marks the last post i promised to write when i asked for people to vote on blog post subjects. everyone happy? no? tough.

so, it may seem like the cacuts garden has a bit of a ridiculous name. or, at least, it may appear that the name doesn't have too much meaning in relationship to the sort of random stuff i write. lies. all lies.

okay, maybe not entirely lies. sorta lies. here's the fake reason for the name: in relation to food, we can eat cactus. in terms of anthropology, one of the ways we refer to random mixes of people is a garden. we also call random groups of ethnically diverse people mixing pots. that's a cooking term, too. okay, that was all complete b.s.

honestly, i got the name from a poem i wrote a while ago, the name of which was "in the cactus garden." (i know, poems seem lame a lot of the time. sorry. i think it's because the word "poem" just doesn't sound like it has a backbone.) anyways, here's the poem. if enough people tell me they like it or whatever, i'll put it on the home page or something.

 

 

in the cactus garden.

 

this is You and I amid the bristles:

hot, bleaching sun parches the rusted dirt

and kicks dust into small whirlwinds;

it cakes on our damp calves and knees.

 

the early evening is, as yet, undiscovered,

phantom fragrances tease the air’s dull weight

and the bloody ground only now begins to seep

up past the narrow horizon gates to the blossoming sky.

 

narrow lengths of walkways coil around us in a flat maze

as we toil in the dry soil, separating plant from path.

agave drape their arms just as they reach for the sunset –

if you, too, would reach for the heavens, I might reach for you.

 

perspiration clings to the long length of our breath.

my fingers, ever digging, ever digging in the earth

long to fold the roots of our lives under us

so we can perch atop history to see our future before us.

 

the faint glow on the nettles from the failing sun

reflects the golden lies of our dreams; still secrets

of our long, probing roots search beneath the rocks

seeking a quenching source; a solvent to solemnity.