seven years

I don't think I've ever given you the space to be in my writing.
you've always been there, a part of the truth. I don't think I've taken you for granted
but I've always found something else that i thought readers would find more
interesting to think about, not you;
but then again this is about me,
and it's just about you, too,
it's been seven years and it's always you. every day, every morning, every evening.
and I don't want to write about you because I don't want to tell the world
the secrets of what has made us so profoundly close.
it's something only we deserve to enjoy.

boundless

it feels like what i know about death and loss is that

i am so in love with you

that the worst of the losses would be to lose this love,

not my life, not anything at all,

but what i feel for you every waking moment

would be so painful to leave behind

that i would give anything to live forever.

wind

there's a wonderful stream of silence that rushes between us. we move slowly down the avenue, while the wind tries to tell me a secret, but my ears are covered by my woolen scarf, wrapped around my head like a balaklava. I do like this, I like being in silence. 

a conversation

death starts at any point in time

but it feels different depending on where you are at.

it has a conversation with you,

and you have a conversation with it.

and you don't always have the same appreciation of things.

of music, of the touch of someone you love.

of pain. of misery.

it vacuums out the light in your empty spaces.

but it gives the space to fill it up again.

it feels like at certain times it comes back to me

and follows me around until i manage

to sit down with it and have a brandy.

i don't know if it will ever get easier.

mulch

sand blowing against the grain,

patterned,

leaving me breathless for a minute

while the forest rests:

pine resin pools in the depths of our minds

i can sense someone will light a fire

to keep us warm,

to keep us close.

presentation

i cling on to something so needy as

people, trying to convince myself

i can be different.

what i can be is new. i can be mistaken,

a beginner, a rookie,

a child, young.

there's more to that, learning the pace of your own needs.

but somehow i feel like i need to show up like someone else.

but it's me who got me here,

who created the opportunities, fought the fight,

made time to grow.

it's me they want there, the person they will listen to.

to keep denying that space is to deny the good that comes with it.

summer

take a nap on a breezy afternoon

light incense with open windows to let the humid morning air in

walk at night with a bottle of wine unsure of the destination

roll windows down in the car and sing along

feel the dry skin on your thighs for the first time in months

dip into cool pool waters in your friend's parents house, while she prepares a snack

visit your grandparent's garden and sneak out by the pool with your cousins

watch the sun set at 8 PM

eat manchego on a rooftop

walk miles upon miles with your back sweating from the effort

a cold pint

you know

that

serotonin

there is nothing is this world so great

as the alchemy of the best day of your life

and what immediately follows.

what a disgrace it can't last forever–

it's only wise not to chase only this pleasure,

but savor it,

remember it.

one time maybe write about it,

with no words, no sounds.

only the flutter in the stomach or the way your feet bounced to the rhythm.

what keeps us alive

is caged in a deep set of neurons

that can remember back centuries of delight.

new york ii (blue is the color of my dreams)

there has always been this search for quietude

deep inside of me

a stillness, much opposed to the traffic of every day comings and wrongdoings;

so when i look into the empty eyes of a dancing figure

i know there was a man that put a soul in there

and i am just the observer of another

piece

of solitude.

and so i saw today. my dream was a dream another man had dreamed of, in 1925;

and i wonder, where will the color of my dreams lead me to,

when i get there i might find out it's too late.

an incessant light, a beacon,

a ray of hope, a glimpse;

art that trascends four thousand years

has kept us together for what will only last longer than any of us.

any craving soul will manage to scour the surface

of what it means to be remembered;

leave a mark that will reach someone else,

in their dreams, across a crowded hall;

oblivious.

new york i

souls will be mapped out

on paved roads

for the whole world to stare

under the shades of young foreign trees

they will carve out a vision in stone

and set it up in the alley for the passersby

who in return, will not perceive

what's been captured in it

there will be silence, foreseen

but not right now, maybe

the whirring of excavators and air conditioning

is enough to keep the mind going

i don't mind not being anyone

better so i am happy to be no one,

at least for now,

at least for july.

you guessed it... another dream

I had another dream where I passed a football back to your son and you were
just standing there, happy to see me.
It's always happy to see me. but beyond those eyes
nothing awaits.
I begged for the memory to stay a while longer,
but when I woke up I knew it was gone. it just so happens
to happen so more often that I would like it to happen,
reoccurring sensations of desperation,
the memory of something that never was.
I've been asking myself when it all began:
I can pin point it to a particular space and time. but when it ended?
no. I don't think I know that.
there was a moment, a true moment of desperation, where you tapped into it and then let me go.
there's nothing to reclaim, it was never mine,
yet it aches like it belonged to me millions of years ago.

fall

days are getting darker,

but not without fading into the sweetest pink light,

the reminder that another day rose up,

armored with sharp, cold winds,

and myriads of evergreen trees swaying along.

days are getting darker and I find myself at the

kitchen table, before coffee gets cold,

reading poetry passages to face the worst

I always wondered what made may so difficult

and it doesn't seem to be the weather

I think it's instrinsic to the way I live.

might just get more out of it

when embracing wool socks and raspy throats

when taking the time to slow down

and enjoy how the world

prepares to die and reborn.

grout away

there it was:
 a house of four thousand rooms
 with no TVs and where we couldn't get lost.

I went up to you in light, like one approaches the altar,
seeking out forgiveness.
funny thing is I have nothing to be forgiven about.
                                                                                  but it wasn't what I found–
fate met me with an open hand, a palm stretched out, facing upwards,
a shy and sly look, a smirk,
a you already know this, I don't know why I'm telling you this
and you shook your head and it was all gone. you brushed it

off like it was nothing more than a mixup, something you tell a friend,

a confidante, someone stronger, someone less committed. I just listened.

I couldn't sleep! I was so excited: I finally felt free. and then,

there's no more silence.

there was no need to talk, nothing to say,

nothing to discuss about because there was just nothing:

no awkwardness, no stalling, no hurt. you didn't try to hurt me, this time.

        I can't pretend I want to be forgotten.

   

and when I confessed to my favorite songs,
you played them for me,
in a whisper, in the farthest corner of the kitchen,

     I think I knew. I think I did.

an idea of rest

once every few months I one friday evening alone to carry out my routines. this includes an afternoon session of house cleaning, to remove the remnants of the work week from my mind; going to the gym, because I have no choice; coming back to shower and pamper myself in a bathrobe, whilst I get ready for the night. The sun would be down by then.

this is all followed by dinner arrangements: 2 cans of beer and bread (has to be fresh), a can of sardines, a tomato thinly sliced and heavily salted, some butter and a sprinkle of black pepper. The lights are on by then.

I need to see a movie, any movie, as long as it is my movie. The first can of beer will be gone between the first 10 minutes but the second can come later. After the movie, all dishes are washed. The kitchen lights come off at this time.

it's then time to settle for the writing part. if I feel watched I can't do it. I stretch out and admire the cleanliness of my house, the lingering smell of tin canned fish, and I move forward. I love to play the horace silver quintet or miles davis quintet at this point.

usually frustration hits after a while. I just continue to push. I'm exhausted from the week, probably should go to bed, but the minutes I have left of solitude are more important than that. so I cling on to it before my head starts aching and all the lights go off. that's my idea of rest.

cortex development

I miss the days where the separation between who I was and who I was meant to be was bigger,

those were times where only fantasies could fill the gaps, unexplained processes,

hell I didn't even know how to pay my taxes and yet it was a magical place.

I lost that now that the cogs in the machine have a place,

there's not a lot to find with every rock I toss into the river,

there' no splash.

I miss feeling like I belonged in the incorrect place: in my family, among my high school friends;

feels like I've lost it now, there's no need for them to see me but there's this innate need for me to know they are there,

but they scurry away, shush, keep their silent distance to remind me I built this,

I am too a victim of the machinations,

and if blood is blood and can never let go, then I am to blame for who made me,

who raised me to keep the quiet and only take what I needed.

I miss the time where that idea didn't cross my mind,

but now it's Friday and I see it

it's staring down at me from the bottom

of the

laundry pile.

fool's spring

I will always be enchanted by the fool's spring.

nothing like a breath of fresh hope,

suspending the disbelief after

long bouts of sadness.

I don't care if tomorrow the permafrost grows on me,

I'll allow the weeds today

  as they blossom into a disarray of flowers–

  I don't mind being swallowed in.

hands

there's such a humanity in motherly hands,

not once have i resisted their gentle invitation,

their will to reconnect, mend, grab, hold, settle,

it has to be a motherly, knuckly, clunky hand,

that shimmers its weight in silver and it's moisturized,

quivering and warm.

my hands used to be warm and calloused,

now they are cold and soft,

inviting the overwhelming sensation that i too,

can follow the female leads of this family,

and foster love of my own,

four generations of teachers, supporting students,

four generations of unconformance, learning to mend on the road,

four generations, maybe more, of women holding their families together in the only way they could learn.

i see my hands and i see my future,

they will tremble, they will have scars and scabs,

they'll bear my mothers rings,

they'll hold my childrens' hands.

about corporate

day after day

i swallow dust,

i forget my name answer to voices

that have nothing better to say,

only reverberate,

make me waste my time.

i turn to ash faster than i can shine a light,

and i can't scream in this crowded room

it's a tickling sensation that doesn't come off

the type of dirt that you feel stuck

a lack of silence, of moments alone;

day after day

i lose my voice

there was yet another dream

what does it mean?

whose ghost are you?

whose shadow am I chasing?

another dream

i am struggling

to keep a memory

that feels real.

soon all that will remain

are my dreams,

and how we never met

in between.

i had another dream

you were selling your house. i for some reason showed up. it was a beautiful mashup of the houses that i have lived in, or that don't exist. the wooden floors creaked lightly under our feet. you had big lamps all over the place. you were glad i was there and hugged me - i couldn't know if i should return the embrace. but i did. for a second it felt real: your flesh, the fabric of your clothes. you were glad i was there. 

i woke up and you were gone.

4 jan

there's nothing here.

on the carpet your steps will hollow out.

the coffee machine whirrs and cleans itself alone.

you can't clean and you can't let down.

nothing here.