Favian Rodriguez

Favian Rodriguez was born in Texas and has resided there the majority of his life, with brief travels around the country and tiny excursions outside of the country from time to time. He has attended school off and on for Art, Music, and Literature, which is still ongoing. Currently Favian paints in his spare time, mostly oil on canvas, while attending the local university in Austin, Texas for literature, and has been working on a novel, which he is expected to finish by the end of the year.

I.

a resounding piano keeps falling upon my head
in the idle hours
as the ringing or the keys or the endless ribbon, played on a typewriter;
baring all our mornings;
giving us our voices
our first hellos
told us we were young, beautiful and foolish;
it made me drunk in all the sad wondering and dour encounters
when we yearned to go back
to bed but rose up beneath the stark landscape
we'd rather not feel or ache over;
here we are though and the time reads:
eleven o' eight in the AM
the window tells
our dragging light in glowering expression to make up our sheets
for the history books
to lay down all these pervasive pieces of paper,
crumpled as they are in disarray;
to make sense of all the moments seized in trinkets of thought
falling down and falling down on my head;
each slat holds a letter,
each column, a story, each person gone, a vacancy;
every one of our silent petitions
finds their way of speaking;
picking up the machines case
from the bedside
unfolding
the parts to find my friendly overture
unabridged in all our
concerto of words
falling down with the instruments pure movement

II.

the sea rolls in...
gently we turn the tides and the burning of our enlightenment
someone has a new book which they haven't read yet;
somewhere there is a house searching a place to sleep;
some of the sleeping
search a place to call home;
pleasure is a comma …taking time, leisurely sauntered;
keeps us well in our conduct
before going down and down we'll go and someday be gone
with nothing more to jot and no one to read you;
ink stained piano keys stare from atop a roof; rooftops staring out at the falls
everybody rolls onto the motionless of the windy
petals
and valley's of grass; my finger's play a decent melody if you know how to touch them
people all going with their faces long, shadows following shortly behind;
there they go by the navels of
their city light being; swish swashing...
how clever their songs, hymns, poems, sonnets
each movement
speaks of verses, speaks and breathes
speaks in all sizes and sums
speaks of laments and what's in the washing clarity;
there is a steady spilling onto our falls; smiling, the sun is going away for awhile
laying it out in an ode for everyone to hear;
a little talk of nostalgic atom hearts yearning to be heard;
skies recall every summer, whispering a why;
silences waiting for the asterisk to change the way our sun
sets across the few mornings we have and tells the piano to look onto
- our hands, the sounds to make
our homes where to sleep, the sleeping how to get through,
the shadows, where to fall; and the dark doesn't lie
but goes down with the sea rolling in...

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