Sunday, April 19, 2009

"hell is where
all hope is banished"

as I wrote this
in the margin of an article
which playfully explored
Leibniz, Voltaire and Maupertius
in a land
far far away from
any family I had
be it my own
or my own chosing
I realize that
hell is not a fate
but also one´s own chosing.

I may be living in someone´s
best of all possible worlds
but it is not my own.

Flashback: circa Winter 1999

once upon a time there was a man
  in his cave waiting to be disturbed
  and reminded who he was

he was shaken by a woman whose hair bore 
   thousands of red suns
   distilling fire in her hair

and every morning after that 
   with every drop of fire 
   her eyes changed their color 
      to a different shade of green he hasn't 
      tasted before:

earthy, sweet, sour, acidic, hot,
   icy, rusty, breezy, bitter, minty...

the words they exchanged
   spoke of ice and storm deserts 
   as perfect allusions to the small disasters 
      they shared 

"in the archipelago of loves i lived through
   i came to believe that
   loving someone has nothing to do with
   the object of one's affection but
   one's heart" she said

he didn't know why he told her 
   he's loved her the same 
   where-ever she was
   whom-ever she was with
   always

probably because it was the truth
   or because he didn't know what was it like
   otherwise

she lit a cigarette
and he thought he saw a spec of grey
   in her eyes as soon as she spoke the words
   "i think men are simple" 
which playfully intertwined
   with thin smoke veins of the 
   conversation they have longed they had had
   since they have met eons ago

the greens of her eyes
   the red of the wine she sips
   the reddish brown of her hair

i like being simple he thought

her hair kept bearing red bright suns
   the sun kept distilling fire
   as his thought became words on the
      tip of his fingers 
   moving onto her hands
   moving onto her lips
   into her eyes
   as a catalysis changing their color
      again

as if in this barren desert of ice and snow
   the conversation they have longed they had had
   run on borrowed time and 
   her eyes were trying to be all the greens and
   her hair was trying to be all the reds 
      he could imagine 
   as fast as they can 
   but they had no time

and he said
"i love you but i don't take you for granted
   nor do i believe i have the right to ask
   you to be who i want you to be
             where i want you to be
             how i want you to be"

realizing soon she had to go

"i don't want to be a burden"
   he added gravely

he said he loved her 
   onto her breasts
   stressing each syllable with a pause
   in her own tongue:

"se...ni...se...vi...yo...rum"

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

in
here
we
are
far
away
from
any-
where
any-
body
a
sad
song
pursu-
ing
us
to
the
ends
of
world
but
i
can't
run
away
any-
more
mad
down
to
noth-
ing
noth-
ing
except
for
few
words
i
tucked
away

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

bits and pieces of words
and sentences
swirl around
in my mind
but fall short of a coherent story

had i not forgotten
all of those love songs
i heard in my childhood
on the radio on sunday mornings
i could describe
the beautiful smell of
burnt slices of bread
my father used to make
on the gas stove

(i still eat my toast burnt)

or watching a cat sleep
in the sun
as i waited for my mother
to come back from grocery shopping
after school

(i still watch cats sleep
with an indescribable yearn for
someone to arrive)

but words swirl beyond my control
incoherent ever
much like the history i belong to
whose soundtrack was
the love songs i have forgotten
from scratchy 45s

Monday, January 19, 2009

bad things happen to good people
everyday
even if they all believe
they all are immune to such things
by virtue of being "good"
as all young believe
they all are invincible
by virtue of being young

but
in the long run
the rate of survival
drops to zero
for everybody
regardless of being "good"
or young
or both

i guess i realize that
we all live in the state of denmark
where something rotten is always afoot
infecting good people
or that i have grown old
or both

Saturday, January 17, 2009

drifting aimlessly

where i don't know

i know the time
i know my geographical coordinates
dead accurate

yet i am desperately lost
in my mind's geography and history

Flashback: December 31, 2008

okay this is it
we are ruffing it

in a city we don't know at all
we share a very very cold night
with a million of other people

realized that i missed that feeling of
being part of the machine of a large city

terribly

zipping through
in a train
in the warm guts of the city

no worries

my mind resonates
with the rumble of the trains,
cars, people walking, talking,
the nondescript white noise of
what surrounds us
within the concrete, the steel, the glass

moving

cold but happy