Friday, August 31, 2012

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Thirteen): Morning Quake



Part 13: Morning Quake

by Armando Ortiz

Back in the mid-eighties there was an earthquake that happened early in the morning during school hours. The ground began to move side to side, like a rocking chair, and I began to run, but running was like racing across an old suspension bridge. Then the teachers began to yell to get on the ground, which I immediately did. The swaying seemed to last forever, the ground seemed to rock up and down, the telephone cables were swinging round and round but without anyone jumping over them, and the red rubber balls seemed to be confused and could not stop rolling in circles. The earth was churning and something was brewing under the earth. That day we came out early from school. I had to wait for an hour or two on the playground. My cousin came and picked me up, we both hurriedly walked back home.


Thursday, August 16, 2012

A Drive to the Coast: Part 6

Part 6: Descent and Ascent

by Armando Ortiz

The sun descends into purgatory and wild shape shifters appear from hidden parts of the land.

Grave robbers come out, and pirates land to pillage in places where faceless people rest in peace.

St. Anthony emerges from his cave unharmed playfully pretending that captivity is a sacred past time from a self-imposed exile in a tiny Buddhist tomb.

Separate worlds running parallel to each other meet on the axis of all gravitational centers where dawn remains infinitely on pause and the sacred mornings of death are trampled by greed, hunger, and desperation.

Black panthers devour pythons and anacondas swallow the pale moon whole while caiman lie ready to devour the wandering soul.

Men snatch the precious coral, layered onyx, fine embroidery and speckled gold pins of yesterday exchanging it for paper gold.

Prometheus arrives carrying the sacred fire, and starts setting piles and piles of plywood over mounds of paper preparing for the sacred ceremony under the sky.

We circle and dance, panting, and singing praises to past ancestors using old Zippo lighters to illuminate our way and in unison attempt to ignite the fire.

The torch handed down to us is sent soaring into an arch, and starts the pyre.

Gentle waters reflect the trajectory of the speck of light that ignites a day within the night. 

Whispers from the morning air pass through our bodies.

In this sacred conch of wind and water are waves of yonder that mix and get lost in our parade of wonder.

Miniature protons ignite the needed flame to keep this performance going all night.

An artificial day in darkness is born, and our hearts illuminate our steps, bringing up postulations for contact and lightness of touch.

Ecstasies of cosmic paragons start to happen and sacred creatures that paraglide next to soaring peregrines experience interstellar parallax.

Shadows are cast aside and reveal the door to our hearts.

The earth palpitating thermal waves turn cold, the grains touched with every ponderous step as we dance to the beat in a splendorous trance.

The moon casts her dress on the ocean water. Now her body is naked, and shimmers on the dark waves like the paleness of her white dress.

The dark silhouette of the mountains hold up the cobalt glass above us and the obsidian waters reflect the shivers of the midnight stars. 


Monday, August 6, 2012

Childhood: Poem


Childhood

by Armando Ortiz


As a child mother took him to the park

And there she bought two bags of popcorn.

One bag was to feed pigeons and the other

We had to share with each other.


They walked along the cement trail and through a tunnel

To get to the sandbox where the swings and slides were.

The metal structures were huge

And glistened under the gigantic lamp of light


Those scaffolds of youth and imagination

Now bring back old memories as he drives by.

Of when he would let go of mother’s hand

And lose himself in the tall metal slide.


Friday, August 3, 2012

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Twelve): After the Rain



Part 12: After the Rain

By Armando Ortiz

He walked outside to smoke a cigarette, and downtown LA’s skyline could be seen at a distance to the east from where he stood. It had rained earlier so the view was quite fresh and crisp. The lights at a distance flickered and he could see the old neon sign that read, Westlake Theater, suggesting to people that a long time ago the swap meet where everyone shopped had once been a venue for black and white films. A white Datsun could be seen at a distance driving west towards Vermont, and a thin haze of grey clouds hovered over the cityscape.

Standing on the roof of the apartment building, he lit his drag and suddenly heard symphony music at a distance. He looked around to see where the music was coming from but couldn’t quite make out its location. The music sounded important, with its violin and suspenseful melodies, conjuring up images of a distant love and present royalty, as if some queen or prince had decided to visit the neighborhood and the only proper thing to do was to put Beethoven or Mozart. None of that was happening though; it was a girl down the street that was celebrating her 15th birthday, a quinceanera. He soon spotted some kids dressed in long sleeve shirts that had been neatly ironed, wearing grey vests and pressed black pants, the shoes they wore, like the puddles by the sidewalk, reflected the liquefied amber color of the street light above. Somehow he’d linked the orchestra music to some embedded feeling or idea that he’d assimilated in the past. He wasn’t sure though.