mortar

my conscience says

that i have–in the course of 48h,

endless nights,

and countless drops of ink–

built an awesome weapon

that'll punch through steel like butter or Superman's finger.

were it a bomb, you could try and throw it away. but it's not.

so you'll resist its boom, and shelter yourself

between the fronds of your conviction.

you'll even cut wire red with wire green

intersect them and hope, it'll go for (what you believe) the best.

let us define it an attack of faith, i have a €2.70 receipt as a saint

and a desert of palindrome devils trying their hardest

i have voices of wasteful friendly fires

and nothing else.

all i do is stand here–with rain of stainless shrapnel.

the switch

there's nothing i do better than destroying

and making mistakes

i'm a natural

talent full of certainties

on how to attain the hugest disdain from the smallest

effort

watch out all around me.

a postcard from here / ugly verses for a beautiful cause

when i said
that i'd do anything for you
it meant that if you asked i would try and stay away to give you time you need for yourself.
now that, for me, was almost impossible.
and still, for you, i was able to do it.

now, when you reverted your words
it all became too difficult
and i knew in the back of my head that you said yeses that could've been nooos.
but i couldn't hold on to them and show you how much
i wanted us to continue. not to pass time, but because
you are indispensable in my life, and i want to be the same in yours.

if anything in our last may meant even the slightest for you
i'm not going to let you go that easy
i'm not going to let your life be that easy
because you're still at the bottom of my heart.

America

i agree

and you agree

that, if by Hegel

everything standing needs a context

then love that sits

needs two.

i agree

and you agree

that love must be unconditional

so–whatever this may account for–why would you keep repeating

questions about a green card?

would you ever think that my love

would be so weak

to bend at a feeble breeze?

would you ever think

that i'd ever leave this town without you?

again–whatever this may account for now–would you ever have

needed this to be written?

my dagger heart of magic and a handful of extraordinary daily routines

there are always two sides to things.

and always just one dice to throw in order to claim

at least seven points

seven full moons

seven glassfuls

and seven shattered desires

so you go and play your hand, count your chances

say goodbyes you don't wanna say

recite a backward salute

and seclude

in a space where no light enters,

no remedy works, and no past is found

in this you float, knowingly;

every time you lift a heel

what once held your weight disappears

in that lonely saturday dawn embrace

every step repeating

the endless gesture of deleting

so you're conscious

you're not only leaving behind

you're missing a chance

of that one dice showing only one dot

you're leaving me, my dagger heart of magic

our chance to make it through

whatever world we may have inherited

with beautiful, bright-morning-light-intensity

and a handful of extraordinary daily routines

the 96hr friday. wake up, curse the light. it's monday

i pressed so many steps from north to south, from sea to hill and from river to river–from bar to bar and from bartender to bartender, until the night sky changed color and until calendars registered the change. distilled cereals and fruits camped out underneath the stars like a napoleonic regiment–ready, of course, but to conquer nothing. i played concrete, grass, wet dirt, cheap tin, recycled glass and two string instruments. i went to Teenager St. but came back early. when i found myself close to home i closed my eyes and my blinds, hoping that the incoming week would shift north like some storms, leaving us in one, unending sunday.

/

he caminado tantos pasos de norte a sur, de mar a montaña y de río a río–siempre de bar en bar y de barra en barra, hasta que cambiara el color del cielo de la noche y hasta que los calendarios registraran el cambio. destilados de cereales y de frutos se acamparon bajo las estrellas como un regimiento napoleónico–listo sí, pero para conquistar nada. he tocado asfalto, césped, tierra mojada, aluminio barato, vidrio reciclado, y dos instrumentos de cuerda. me he ido en calle Quince Años pero volví pronto. cuando me encontré cerca de casa cerré los ojos y las persianas, esperando que la semana desviara hacía el norte como ciertas perturbaciones y nos dejara en un único, larguísimo domingo.

silence. it's both ways.

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

e. e. cummings

not enough, but again, then. (finishing fishing) [different times of a month-long day or a day-long month]. reflections

before knowing what time your alarm clock will display
when you'll believe
to be finally fluttering eyelids

and finding your way to the center of storms / peripheral vision;

when you'll have exploited
all the options
or chosen the option not to feel–
equally as unfathomable, but different in context:

i wish you to have my name on an orange strip in an empty house
full of other things.

not necessarily a winner–
but forcefully silent, while running
the track&field of straight lines in curved spaces–.

when flying through the hurricane you'll notice having no problem
ripping off my roof, void of weight, or welding
while you decide what part of yourself,
or which of your past behaviors
you hate the most.

and even if, i might sometimes substitute my o's for zeros
i guess i can recognize to be biggest flake
of snow to fall in june.
but, hey, not necessarily lost, you'll understand

that i'd never be just an umbrella for a sunny day;

you'll have a shot at matching squares with squares,
when my butterfly hands will have nothing to do with your centrifugal winds.

but, hey, too soon or later.
maybe no later's too late / up to you.

of course it's written for Z.D., who'd you ever think it'd be for? and Blanchot can fuck right off, this pen's alive.

stomp

yes i am a kid.
and fuck all of you.

the opposite of where he is, that's where he's going.

harry put it simple: "i'll repair the keel"
and continued, "the effort and time it needs are all related–
to your miles at sea, and your time on land".

so i guess i should believe harry,
he's experienced
in these kind of things, although never successful (i add).

the problem is–my trust nestles in nothing
and is shackled to possibility (and some slow verses, maybe).
south south of the equator, east in the Atlantic, you can't sail with no stars
but i better get used to it if that's the way i'm heading.
i can take this, i've charted the doldrums and the horse latitudes enough, to captain this ship.

the only thing i ask is not to linger in a state
where every time is–can be–the last. but beautiful 7 year wood
needs just that to avoid curses and steer clear of sandbanks
that every other route can lead to port, or an equally secure, ship cemetery.