in time's affluence
you become another
tanka poet,

slowly you slay the
monster growing on the
left side of your
shoulder

very much looking
like you

unable to write on your own
you shop

you read wanting to find for
answers

you do this most of the times
neglecting outside

you enter a cave and find some
shadows

you love it
now you have something to write

if you are lost
it does not matter

before you arrive here
you were nowhere to be found

one's pain
can be another one's pleasure
this sense of balance
what you take from one
is another person's addition

too much heat
makes this world vomit
fire
what to do then?
take a look, day and night
move.

an ode to numbness
it is just a game of words
i like to say it that way
when you ask me what this means
i candidly say it is nothing
like the way the wind whispers to the
ears of children
busily playing their games
along the streets outside the house
where their parents are always fighting

she slept upon a couch
and out of grief
deeper than she could endure
she forgets time
as morning light peeps upon her window
creeping through the venetian blinds
she utterly disregards it
preferring instead
the darkness where she lives.

septonisque
what they need is
nine, so, don't leave it at eight
it lacks the hour of one
do not be too early then
or too late
cater to what is required
otherwise it makes no sense
what is needed is nine
hence ten is unkind

nature is not pretentious:
take note, today's most beautiful sunny day
and tomorrow's storm
are its faces, nothing concealed sifted,
nothing is selected to show only what is best
the flower does not bloom to eternity

we all see what is wilted
what went rotten, what is coming
and what is finally gone.

the fan is like
a hand with fingers
that fuse themselves
to capture the wind
like the way we
grasp the truth
one in many manners
in many eyes
one face

he hates sleeping at eight
in the evening, it is just too early and
what he needs is not much sleep,
involuntarily, he wakes up at
3 am and he has no one to speak
and be familiar with

the hounding sound of silence is
like that of a dog, and the horror begins
if he covers his ears he may explode

that night
the image of an old church
arrives late
there is no priest
there

my gallbladder is full
and i let it go
i could be the groom
waiting for the bride
but it is only a wish
then the image of an
old house flashes in my
mind later
i wake up
switch on the light at the headboard
the clock reads
2 pm
i could have been
a black butterfly
the one the old women of the
house dread
but i cut if off
i promise them
i do not want to be
a pain
in their asses
anymore
i am not that good
enough
at killing them
with what i cannot be.

at the end it is just you
all goes away
there is no need
to enumerate
i have already forgotten
all of those and these

i get to correct this notion
at the end there is nothing
not even myself
or you

it is just fog
we do not even notice it
as it is
too slow and yet
too sudden

 i know that you are unhappy
i figure it out the first time i saw you
at the hotel cafe i ask you what you want to eat

you want to eat me but i could not be that
delicious to you so i set aside the wish
and offer you instead that carrot cake
and lemon juice

you look thin and hungry and i think those
stuff are better for you
oh, do not ask me i am not that really happy
i got all those old fears and the worst of me
still is yet to come

i will conceal all these things from you
as you want too to conceal all about you from me

oh, these make up called poetry
these masks with no eyes
these hollow sockets of our souls

i am a house
walled out from you

you are the black
goat grazing on herbs
on a foot of a hill

we almost had it
i was alone in my room
and i could have made you
come with me

you smiled thinking
perhaps that you can have
me too

i looked at the window
no one was coming
everything seemed to be
one perfect moment

but nothing happened
and i knew what the reason was
though i did not tell you

i did not really love you.

we want to make a poem
the two of us
my mind begins to burn
i'll take her under the moon
we start to make one
and it was really really
a big fun

it is not meant to be heard
it is meant to be done

so many things to see
to do, outside, the sun, and
trees, and
pathways, narrow alleys
some,
and eight-lane superhighways
inside a bus
one chooses the side of the
window
hoping to forget what hurts
still, as edges of roads come
and slice
your mind, but, and this is real,
as you close your eyes,
you go back to
yourself, and to that which still
hurts, which makes
an empty space in
your heart, as you feel the hollowness
of dreams
unfulfilled, of substances light as air,
and someone sees you

blank as paper, light as cloud,
hard as another wall,
a word misspelled,
a lapse, a limp, another slip,
and you do not mind, leave it,
there, you sleep.

outside the wind howls and the skies are dark
and the roads are empty
your window is open and you gaze into a world
abandoned and then you create what is not there
the stars appear and some birds are late for their
roosting pass you by like a group of leaves blown by
the western wind and then you make the rain
in your mind, as the frogs begin to croak as the
fireflies take shade around the tree facing your house
and the crickets too, on the bushes, make their songs.

what are pebbles? you know how to impress this kid
asking you to draw a rainbow that bridges two hills
on the foot of the hill is a child near the house playing
alone, and such loneliness makes this kid by your side
asks for flowers and birds and skies,

and you tell him, " kiddo, these pebbles are seeds" and
even if you throw them away because you do not like
their silence and hardness, they always grown on the
side of the hills bridged by this rainbow where the lonely
child of your sorrow dreams too of you to be with him
one day, when imagination and reality blends like body and
soul, like yeast and dough, like salt and water, like man and
woman, like roots and rocks.