Iberian Introspective

For Eixample

We walked intrepid into the quiet night,
perfectly following the manicured boulevards--
the perennially symmetrical avenues.

It was innervating,
gulping copious the foreign air
inundated with beautiful sights and people;
devouring whole the rhythmic hive of
haunts historic and timeless.

It felt unencumbered, yet divided;
liberated, yet stratified.
I felt the noose loosen superficially,
but sensed the tethering deep.

The Barceloneta Bacchanal

I witnessed debauchery:
plentiful bacchanalia
thriving in the port.

Youths bartering hedonism;
speaking tongues of endless decadence.
I felt old, the specter of former malfeasance
rising miasmic in my soul.

It was beatific,
the rapturous descent into lust:
desire fulminating potently
in the Catalonia sky

It left me depleted,
yearning for the infinity of promise
achingly evanescent
amidst the naivety of the night.

Gracia

The writhing columns
of Parc Güell embodied
the wonderment of Gaudi.

Encapsulated his quest
to commune totally with the elements--
become one with the loam
and renew perennially.

I saw it reflected in the aching arches of the Sagrada
and questioned what lies beyond:

Are we just carving up space,
using our time for doctrines and dogmas?

Is what we create the sum of existence,
our potential predicated on how fully we vest
in the engine of our minds?

Within cathedrals and crucibles,
legacies remain mutable:
we are the architects and executioners
of our transient universe.

Doors of Stone

The rocks--La Pedrera--sinuous gateways to the heavens:
a flowing, fecund celebration of stone
sublimating strata into stanzas.

The timelessness of this city will stay with me.
It's effortless artistry,
a study in efficiency and elegance.

It reveals the disparity within
--the monotony of the grind Americana--
an all-consuming, withering triumph gauntlet
fueled solely on ambition and ravenous necessity.

Is this the truth Gaudi so plainly sheared
from the threads of our proletarian threnody?

To slake our incessant thirst
we must seek beauty crafted from the dust of our bones--
a beacon to recall what was borne away
in the writhing tangle towards
absolution.

Obrigado

It was mesmerizing:
the elegance and casual regality
of Lisbon.

The salt breeze and noble monuments
cooed seductive the majesty of ages past--
emphatically mirrored from the castelo’s perch.

Splendor infused the fabric of the streets,
the music and vibrancy condensed potent
in the meandering magic of Bairro Alto.

In a heady haze of possibility
--Ginjinha fueled the sojourn introspective--
revealed beauty liberated from stasis,
germinated hope in reinventions anew.

Perks of the Castellan

It is a city of levels,
forever climbing upwards towards
the bastion of the Castelo.

From this vantage it's all hooks and ladders:
a winding ascent heavenwards,
stratified yet winding in tempo with
the trolley tracks.

I'll remember the towers & castles
the pastries and bacalhau,
but I depart now craving more--
yearning to explore the nooks of history,
and immerse fully in the crevices of this culture.

A Bounty of Bridges

The Riverwalk of Porto was raucous:
dozens of melodies intermingling,
university students strutting proudly in their regalia,
the ferries and trams alive with activity--
the pulsing nebula of the river coaxing
opposing shores to lovingly embrace
amidst this gyre of
wonder.

Galician Fog

I saw the fog roll into the bay
atop a castle in Baiona.
I saw the kaleidoscope coastline
ignite into the night sky,
the moon tracing a path towards
picturesque eternity.

It enveloped us completely:
the boreal vapor descending
steadily from the Sierra de A Groba.

Such serenity spoke elegiacally
to days wreathed in the freedom of naivety;
when truth was the lullaby of nocturnal waves,
and this cliff-side vantage represented clarity
before the shroud’s inevitable descent.

The Cosmopolis Castellano

Departing from the Baiona mist
we followed the road to Santiago:
a brief stop-over replete with weary
dust-laden pilgrims.

As the metro pulled into Madrid
a metropolis emerged--
a study in modern antiquity,
bearing the scars and beauty
inherent with centuries of civilization.

Traversing the maze of industry
felt more akin to the frenetic streets Americana:
bustling masses testing the limits of infrastructure,
myriad daily dramas unfolding naturally.

Alas, pockets of oasis existed:
where nature and history coexisted in harmony.

It is here we trod in the searing swelter
of the Iberian sun,
savoring the grandeur and time-worn
efficiency of the capital.

Royal Dust

A study in excess:
the bellicose beauty of the Palacio Real.

To see such affluence room after room
reveals the disparity of wealth on display:
salons wreathed in wall-to-wall porcelain,
color schemes oozing regality--
all for antiquated systems of monarchy.

Such institutions reveal the illusory nature of power.
How by wielding it we abdicate to our baser nature,
construct narratives and surround ourselves
with gilded tokens of our magnificence,
all in a bid to allay the reality of our atrocities.

That royal dust bears the weight of history:
eloquent lies scribed in accordance to victor’s vision,
mirrored in this palatial construct’s celestial height--
an insidious monument to power’s caustic reach.

The Careful Control of Chaos

There is Blood.

Resplendent, crimson pools;

vermillion, Pollock splatters—

an exsanguination in progress.

A symphony of movement

—coordinated yet chaotic—

vacillating dangerously between cusps and veils,

sweeping movements in this orchestra of altruism.

This is the crucible:
millimeters defining epochs,

anticipation & adaptation

dictating the currency of 

existence.

Amidst the storm we strive

to stave off the lullaby of desaturation;

within the ocean of sound we seek

the metronomic beat of life.