AMARA-PURUSHA

for how long shall i live?
there is no more word for this.

lead

you wish you were a snail rather than a hammer
but the lines are written on your palms
like the maps of your destination
you earn silence, the silence of the snails
you expunge the hardness of the steel
you solidify your arms and hands
you build an iron canopy around your heart
for a time you like this pretension
how long how soon? the invaders are here
with their tin mouths and bladed lips
how soon? shall you let thing run like you have
no control? there are children on the lower part
of your trousers and they put their hopes on you pelvis
you stand and rise from your stupor
wins the vigor, calms all souls

daily routine

lights come in from crevices
of your plywood walls
it is morning and sounds come trickling
like rain from the kitchen
smells of fried egg and coffee fumes
and thin smoke rising from the rice
you stretch your hands
rub your eyes
and see a new beginning
someone sings like crazy in the bathroom
you remember
she is another one
you knew just last night
this is not daily routine
you still have to ask her name

not definitely the hands

when you start cleaning the ground
pulling the grass and cutting some trees
removing the stones
and throwing some snails
and shoveling some soil
when you point at the spot
where you put the first post
of a new beginning
you feel like some new reason
justifying another round
of your existence

something inside your heart claps
they are not definitely like hands

feeling down

feeling down
feelings like kittens without
mothers or rains without
a guiding gutter
where to stay for a while
while season blur
and lights burst
stomachs grumbling
and feet smashed
like snails

where do you live now?
at the writer's block

a big shit

someone called me to come out from the door
and i look outside and no one was there
somehow i must be dreaming
to see this woman wearing an orange shirt
in tight black jeans
biking on the cemented road of this town
beside this old house

her pair of sunglasses in deep black shade
covers her eyes
and she looks at me like she is one giant
dragonfly
she passed by like a soft breeze from the sea
leaving me the blasting sense of
aghast

i still have to learn more about disgust
like some eyes hiding, looking at you and then
leave you as though you are a big
shit.

it has no more teeth
there are deep sunken eyes
like an eclipse
the sound of the parking area is harsh and the
ambiance of the center stage is dark blue
and when the lights faded
the tables were already
empty

a lady beside me
has gray hairs
she must be older
by twenty years
like the much awaited name of
this May concert

she gives me the reason
for watching
she comes from a far place

it was the talks
the refined rumors of advertisement
that pushed her
towards this presence

i shared what i wish i could not
have said
and praxie need not really
hear this
lest i be a cruel absence

it is because we were once
together in the room with that shoe-throwing
music teacher and we want to recall
the episode of shame

nothing more

he played what i think was eccentric
eclectic and electrical
there was no good vocal
or ponder

we left before midnight
and i think it was enough courtesy
for good taste

lost

when i wake up today
too early this morning
when the cocks still crow
and the lizards still make the usual sound
as though saying
this world is okay yet my heart still
beats this ticking clock of
pain longing for love this thing that until now
i do not really understand
we had sex last night and we slept
and had our own sweet dreams
in fantasy land

there is still this emptiness that carries me back to you
and i ask: Who are you? Are you God?
Is it you?

There is this loneliness despite
the sunshine and the little rain of hope
that trickles like a caress of thin air
so cool in the garden out there

There is this doubt about the source of the voices
from within
this conscience which has a mouth and knows
how to speak the language
of truth

Have i forgotten you? Have you forgotten me?
Such questions
shall be my breakfast for this morning.

the feeling of doubt

from her stern face
it seems that she only had certainty
her face is square like most windows
but hers is different since it is always closed
like the one for winter
during summer when the clouds are blue
and the skies are clear
and so beautiful to watch with the sun
and the greenness of the world out there
she is still stern
closed

i may believe her firmness
but i have never known what is inside here
for judging her is beyond the openness of my door

one day she fell in a hole
no one knows who dug it along the usual path where she takes her walk
and she broke a bone and despite the skill of her doctor
she never knew how to walk again

her eyes sank like a boat to the ocean
her cheeks shrank like a cake dough short of yeast
she fell short of faith
like a candle eating her own body
until it consumed its light

doubt mounted on her like the dust of her furniture
she became more stern
as ever
harsh and hard
and finally the her window was broken
the frame gave in
and fell and blown by this strong wind of change

when she met doubt her world shattered into pieces
unlike others
the rest of us even live in there
though uncomfortably
but without anger and denial

“What distinguishes modern art from the art of other ages is criticism.”


Octavio Paz

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; because there is not effort without error and shortcomings; but who does actually strive to do the deed; who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotion, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly. So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.”

Theodore Roosevelt

“When we judge or criticize another person,
it says nothing about that person;
it merely says something
about our own need to be critical.”

One mustn't criticize other people on grounds where he can't stand perpendicular himself”

Mark Twain

“He has a right to criticize,
who has a heart to help.”

Abraham Lincoln

“Flatter me, and I may not believe you.
Criticize me, and I may not like you.
Ignore me, and I may not forgive you.
Encourage me, and I will not forget you.
Love me and I may be forced to love you.”

William Arthur Ward

tell me to stop
find me a way to stop this dying little thing inside me
it has been this way
when i was born and here i am trying to live the way you all want me to be
since then
i am lost and i do not even know why i am here
i had this little voice like a cocoon wanting to come out from my mouth
in fear
i have swallowed it and since then
i have become this little dying thing giving up
tell me to stop please
i am light.

from the beginning things are too simple
each creature has no name
they know each other by the sound
and smell and the simplest glance ever
eye to eye
gives the needed peace
love and compassion

somehow the beginning was lost

now in the shallow waters

forget the deep
we have experienced what drowning is
the past is over
we begin again for something new
this wading
in the shallow waters
we bear witness to the whiteness
of our flat feet
we store some confidences
we throw unnecessary fears

sometimes
being a pig gives a nice feeling

how does it feel perhaps
to be a buffalo wallowing in the mud?

not thinking about what they think
not thinking about the
strict codes for tomorrow?

time's getting too short
the hands of time have been too cruel
let us take this moment
little pleasures that may last us for
another short lifetime

let 's swim, let's get muddy
let us be happy

forget how was breathing
when we were in the deep sinking

1:21

guess the hour
of my madness
when loneliness
begins to rise
and move
like a white smoke
from the chimney

it is dark and there is
nowhere to go

that visit

when you arrive
the doors do not open
by themselves
the locks are asleep

both of you get inside
you find that the air is still
not really tranquil
there is simply no hands
of time
that welcome both of you

the bed is ready
yet you only put your bags
and then leave

the field of loneliness is fertile
yet not word has ever grown
the seeds rot
and the rain never stops