I don't want your fingerprints ...
(Work in progress)
(Sorry for the inconvenience)
God ... thoughts of death mourning a loss,
one after another, like falling hailstones cracking the tiles
of the substance of things not seen but feared. I could care less
God ... it's the longest night of my years caught in the toils
of doubts, of despair, of the sound of falling ice
that reverberates inside my faith in sudden slices
and outside this pen for sheep-raising still in fertile soil
I fail to get over the fence without a stile
Impotent to kiss resignation's toes
advocated by those who want my obedience and my tithes at all costs
A version of the interpretation of the oral traditions already translated into lies
Greeks, Romans, Monarchs, Despots, Rulers, Reformists, Stoics...
Impotent to listen to the duty of the silken stole
that pulls my crackling faith into its coils
Impotent to accept sacred writings chosen by lot
Impotent of praying more and thinking less
Impotent to breathe, to see, to walk through wind-blown salt and s i l t
measuring a time ... dark and lost
God, a profuse bleeding from a ruptured soul refusing to clot
Thoughts of death like tears of ice
when the electrocardiogram yells h h h
e p e p e
l l l p ... Where will be the lice
to suck my sins and tics?
to cough and gag and vomit my unfulfilled temptations into a cist?
My time of death has expired long time ago. Do you noticed it?
do you care about it?
Thoughts of death tickling upon my bare soles
I'll be nobody without a tag swaying from my toe
The night at its farthest point from the Sun and still so close
I need to believe it
God ... You need to believe it
I can kill you if my faith is lost
Your magnolia tree
filters the afternoon sun—
I carved our names in its trunk
Those beloved flowers
impregnate the sudden breeze—
You are miles away from here
Dedicated to Carrie Richards
the wandering breeze in the wheat field
the pawn advancing to the eighth rank
the ocher leaves under the window
the One Hundred Years of Solitude
the One Thousand and One Nights
the disappointment of the elderly
the pile of dirty dishes in the sink
the water trickling into the sewer
the hand that calls and defends
the vast ocean that drowns me
the widower feeding the doves
the five drops of Chanel No. 5
the saddest verses of Neruda
the insect hidden in a cocoon
the impotence of forgiveness
the Tango and the Tarantella
the windmills of Don Quixote
the sadness of the hunger
the barking dog that bites
the prelude and the fugue
the glass of wine to share
the illusion of the outcast
the puddles on the street
the new kid in the school
the orphan in the asylum
the color of the shadows
the lies of the politicians
the rain on a sunny day
the message in a bottle
the petal and the thorn
the laughter of children
the blindness of Borges
the feather in the wind
the moss on the stone
the beard of Whitman
the Nuremberg Trials
the door always open
the underpaid worker
the mistletoe waiting
the hair in your food
the tangerine wedge
the gasp to nowhere
the last surrenderer
the beggar's refuge
the pointing finger
the foam of anger
the broken mirror
the clocks of Dali
the curving road
the trail of tears
the garlic breath
the bitter vomit
the Nazca lines
the lost island
the false note
the joy of sin
I am Death
I'm the poet.
To Chan "Archaic" Hurst
I see you — in a way — caught
held captive from escaping
a broken mirror.
Beyond curse and superstition
staring at yourself: fractured, fragmented
to unfold the tapestry of your artistry
no further tricked by optical pills.
I see you — in a way — laying awake
counting cracks when pain pierces the air
or kicking in amniotic fluid:
a mirror breaker
throwing crystal's shards in all directions
Torch confined to lead light
in technicolor, through pentagrams
within flamboyant kaleidoscopes
or stained glass windows: an unsolved puzzle
on the verge of your own Walden
where nothing will be enough
where you don't belong.
I see you — in a way — dreamer
to foster fantasy with nesting habits
discovering Tolkien in Star Wars pajamas
racing a Nimbus 2000 over Gotham city
Child-brother sharing Hakuna Matatas
And there you stand:
Who's the best rhymer in the land?
cause it's all just Greek to us
to mock the geeks, perhaps
we rolled our eyes
Today, a guitar grieves
reviving euphoric notes
We know — there is no stage five life
and although its knots seem to be untied
I see you — in a way — still alive
Shine, Mediterranean Selene
unique goddess of this dark life
glow with pride and forget the strife
all my nights are lonely and serene.
I'm yours, only yours, pure and clean
and although your distrust is rife
soon, so soon... you'll become my wife
believe these words of sacred mien.
Do not let envy plant those seeds
of fear, of jealousy and spite
from the demons come those breeds
whose gossip and lies seek our fight
They're who expect your heart concedes
to steal what lives just for your light.
Sudden summer rain
soaks the garden before dusk—
Cat licks early stars
Through the same glass
another sand sags
that engulf this soul
Somebody find me, Anybody
Once again the coin has been tossed
to choose between just dirt and dross
Insults from ridge to ridge
on how to build a bridge
in town without river to cross
Psychological phenomenon, perhaps
A little dubious but still enigmatic; you know
Rare stimulus through our enthusiastic eyes...
Eyes or ears that brings awe and fear; why not?
Images in abstract forms, we believe in forms!
Designs and figures created by lazy clouds; did you get it?
Or mysterious shapes, or illusions in visions...we're almost there
Lying on ground, marks or impressions...lying? Follow me...
Intimidating or inspiring? ...I think that the Sphinx Head on Mars
At night, only at night...it looks just like aunt Beth.
World English Dictionary
Pareidolia: the imagined perception of a pattern or meaning where it does not actually exist, as in considering the moon to have human features, or religious images in windows and walls or in clouds resembling animals or faces.