Rigorous
Volume Three, Issue 2



Darryl Wawa


Combustion

To a night lamp
I hold a thin film of secrets
a strip of Disney movies
action figures
a tent
that combusts with each breath

Faced with myself
I go to my yellow chest of toys
that my mom had made
by a carpenter
She must have known
that you need an imagination
to see treasure




Eros 4:
Moisture

Orange and yellow sunsets
orange and yellow drinks
If you fall in love on the beach
it doesn’t have to last long
Maybe it’s how the water moves you
and makes everything easier
like a hand on a chunk of ass
or a foot on your penis
a peek at a nipple
or a clitoris ring
Maybe the minerals
the beach and chlorine
add tang and salt
to a sweet mouth
wet with drinks and moist
with lust.




Lessons of color

When dusk’s pastel voice
is not enough
I look for music
I try to sing

Even after the wine
I went for a walk
and stumbled on a derelict street vendor
whose skin was charcoal black
dusty, like this sidewalk wall
like a burnt parchment
From her I purchased a small gold vial
of women’s perfume
that colored my evening
with the wine and music

Morning and dusk
make me think of color
how to tone my reactions
the bougainvillea that bursts open
beneath the clouds
in rich magenta
the weed across the street
that’s growing what looks like fire
brick orange flowers

Color hates shadow
that’s its language
it’s how it bursts
And that’s how my voice feels sometimes
like a blooming flower
or a leaf changing color
on a cloudy day

I picked up a color palette
through a funny mixture
of fashion, LSD
art school, Eggleston
Godard and Dustin London
I learned of shades and tones
hues and saturation
of the vividness of color
of color without context
of color in sound or sound in color

You see, color is gesture
like violet sunsets
fast enough to be forgotten
Mars’s twinkle in the night
that suggests red
Or a grocery store wall
painted orange




Rubber Jungle

Through cigarette vapors
and hunger

your pudgy child
buoyed my heart

like this full moon
heliumed above and behind the trees

Our tread
through this plantain jungle

our inspired silliness
why does it always
turn to rubber?




The finer thing

Some days I can’t stand light
how it branches scenarios
that cover my sad eyes. Sometimes
light feels like a shadow and vice versa
as if the world scanned
turns to nothing

How time ticks
like a constantly knocking
itch
while distance pains and paints
landscapes with caricatures
I draw closer to reach
for likenesses, whims
when I can, but I am a loner
I am alone

It’s what we don’t say that kills
so I text you
or someone else instead
wishing
for someone, something closer to a mirror

In the ring of life
introspection strikes
with truer passion, the reflected passion
that hold hands
and walks with distance

The body is the true parchment
of endured feeling
what was proved beyond sentimentality
So I have to write alone
That’s the thing
that’s how I get to truths
worth knowing
and telling

like how Anne Carson
is beautifully tragic
or how my own grief
makes me relate to cripples
and fools
and keeps me humane

If I were light, distance
would be a friend
company to straighter vectors
beyond the rainbowed mundane

Were distances matters of will
I’d soulfully tell you of my journeys
and their refractions, unburdened
by what our eyes do not share

I thank men for books
this used one that smells
like someone’s toilet
and this other
that has the old book aroma
the sweet scent
of paper and time

better friend than you. How sad
that I remember the cool breeze
because we’re worlds apart


Darryl Wawa: "I am a Port-au-Prince born Haitian-American who studied Photography and Creative writing. I enjoy chocolate and good books. That said, maybe a movie is a good book. I love to work with images and words and their pairing."




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