17 Kira Aguilar

Kira Aguilar

Two Weeks and Two Cities

Couldn’t know this would come back so quick but, even then I was worried. Should know when it’s only Barely started getting cold but not as cold as I knew it could be not as cold as it was that place that year with that cracked front door & the weeds growing through the kitchen tiles… & a sickly fog on the inside where you least expect. We walked through and in and over to witness the decomposition of the interior, where he was lounged laying arm dangling down the side one knee propped up swaying breathing while she was in the back way back where we couldn’t see her but hear an odd sigh and a creak of a chair or a delicate puffing of the machine. Something always playing out loud in those rooms, making the silence an island of itself in between these clouds of strawberry milkshake, drum in the air coffee with doughnuts. Italian wine only will do, he said. Nothing but the best for the beasts of these heavens here amidst the fluff and going no where but down and down, real fast. Heaven itself can’t stay afloat for long having no air to breathe does indeed speed the process. Up the stairs above the cloud line and we could see clearer but smells do linger between paper walls. An energy that can’t be put down out of it’s misery sticks to you like the magnolia coated layers to the lines on your hands it smells and get’s under the nail barely out of reach where you’d have to break skin just to have a go at it. He had nice hands, the kind that held lightly and gently because they knew how to do damage and bore the weight of his body between those fine lines along the pale glassy scars. The scripture you find engraved on knuckles that belong to hands like that, of such grace lacking glory thick with wisdom, is one of the recorded history of tools misused a verse thickened by the swell, boiling in the veins of the poet he should have known he is.

There’s Nothing We Can Do For You

I had some time A whole stretch of it, led to it’s own end the beginnings sounded like this, that freedom had come by all the ways it could waved hello to us on the grassy roads, the weedy gamble every night the empire we built had no strength or it might if it had led itself, myself not with the tide but with some bone to hold the flesh that bore right through, to the religion was too much liquid intake lacked compassion but we prayed on and on the floor those week ends lay, bare at my bare feet all pink and hard they were those lasting hours of the stretch we’d made, those days of beginnings for the ends

Magnolia Stage

A show that lasted longer than expected and ended sooner than I can believe. Laying in the magnolia shade to find some magnolia space, the pale of the eye before you your person realise that it’s gotten far too far in, the off-white reflection from the mirrorless rooms down stairs out the back for a hack of fresh air to sit in the cold glass tower & feel the outside through cracks, sitting for a time that was never enough time. We angered the walls and they returned with an act of the absurd, right out our own book our brains and their homes. Magnolia show ends and minds find temporary lodging in the limbo along the way, painted on within inside the slow fade the commercial break to close.

Kira Aguilar

Year of the Interior

It was hard to say on a morning of all mornings to remember correctly on an evening stretching out into a late night flooded with red walls and the insides of our mouths pushed up against the interior of a cardboard shoebox, the top & bottom far too close to each other with no break no direct sunlight to calm the growing painted magnolia stage. To put on the finest production of misconduct via the nostrils of entry but at least the door could shut tight at least for a while but the marks left are likely still there, even if we’re not.

The Junction

The bass line set the rhythm of the night to match the indoor beats with the sounds steel rides from the streets to the sight of a forced morning when the light needs to be dragged up and down the asphalt along the wall and all it’s action now static, as gas turns to flat lines which mean something to some, surely, and a whole lot of nothing to the ones living along the grooves between the rough edges that separate the living from the non, put here by faces of the strong who acted without knowing, tools made of man of men asked not to think but to perform a great act as it is. The junction on those streets I see that space a lot behind my eyes, familiar space a city so small littering habitual lights. Get out of here, the one place a day that grows familiarly into the tunnel you built ourself inwards through one eye out the other. A blow like that could be lethal.