There is an endless ocean of blue hues
claiming my breath.
Underneath my feet, the space between my thighs,
the waves dance, high on Fate.
It does not matter that I do not wish to go,
the waves are there to take me regardless -
the laughter slowly dies,
the fish think that I too own fins
because I keep going deeper and deeper,
their bodies barely distinguishable
as I'm unable to stop the current,
as I become the current,
as I am the cold flow and warm swirls.

The black rocks are silent giants,
witnesses of this repetitive transfiguration -
the entrance,
the commencement of the dance,
the reconfiguration of senses;
the lost voice.   

Re-visited Thrice

I keep re-visiting the same vision.
I step out into a land of green
and an endless road of woven asphalt and dried-up dirt,
the sun arching over my back,
my shoulders feeling the gentle breeze
as my feet begin to go up the hill.

Always - the green;
the trees,
the swaying grass,
the foliage partly covering the sky.

Always the movement,
the sound of rubber on the ground,
as I climb and run,
as I distress and shake the days off
and succumb
to the motion
less gravity.

Perhaps I could be your sanctuary
of flowing skirts and grainy pictures.

Coffee.
What would I do without you?

This senseless chatter weighs me down
as in undertow under bla bla bla 

It's all about what is being done now and what will happen later,
not knowing whether I'll care still or I'll care less.

As things are this week,
I'll probably care less -
not even accents get to me anymore.

Say, did you know you do not get through to me either? 
I'd rather stare at a page.
Blank or otherwie.
Preferably stained, with marks of previous fingers.
Although I do not currently understand history,
I'd rather hold it more often than not.
Pretense can get you far, it seems. 

No, you may not ask my opinion.
I do not wish to share my points
and you should not have to listen.

Call yourself.

Forget my wire.

Let my feet be crows
and the ground my heavens.

Is my telescope here yet?

Even All Your Love (?) Can't Bring Me Down

No need to hide.
There should be no need.
No heart pounding hard against chest,
no palpitating anxiety.
There should be no need.

Demands,
none. 
Answers,
only kindly.
Smiles,
not clenching jaw and bearing teeth. 

Freedom.
To roam.

I.

Released from my thoughts,
I release you.

I do not keep -
keep.
As if it was my choice.

But it is. 

Hello bound leather.
Good-bye, SS.

Damage Control

Repeat after me:

+ The lovely antique-looking desk, the purple violin, the gorgeously obscure WWII books all perished in a terrible fire. You did the best you could to rescue them.

+ The only French you've spoken was spoken: 1. in college, where three courses and 2 labs of intensive French were required for graduation; 2. in dialogues with university colleagues as form of practice; 3. to mimic the actors and actresses in such movies as Amélie and Le Pacte des Loups (among other favorites), also as a form of practice.

+ At some point in your life, you found yourself amidst snow, somewhere in the Northern hemisphere, but you do not know how, when, or how you got there. You must have been delusional. However, you're glad for the snowy days & nights.

+ You love the good times, but you realize that peace of mind is uncompromisable.

+ Dead men tell no (more) tales.

+ If all else fails, remember that precious stones cure all.

(More to be added later ~ curing in process)

The flame has flickered once again.

And now the flame has died.

It is unfair to assume that everything will be as before.
We should never fool ourselves with such pretentious lies.
Instead, let's honor chaos and breathe solely to survive.

Do you really know how to make fire? 

Tamed Beast

It is impossible to name this
happiness ridden explosion in my belly
brought about by comfort
and familiar settings,
lined with coffee at 10am and sunlight partly drenching the cold tiles.

Everything is ruined, moments at a time.
How many times we experience catharsis is either a test of character or endurance - perhaps both.

Always both?

How many times you find yourself cornered and feeling useless,
words proving to be inadequate and your world of ideas senile -
is it up to you?

Have you ever uttered sounds and wondered why none of them made sense?
How the situation which rose them spins out of control so much that only anger fuels you?

Has it ever happened -
that you are completely misunderstood?

I have no answers.
I just need to know I'm not alone.

Una noche como ésta -
me desnudo frente a la casa
que forjó mis otros mundos.

Nonsense. How comically ridiculous to answer mundane questions with more questions
only to provide means that will allow you to afford time and decent spaces;
having to constantly ask, "And where are you?"

All ruins should be mine - the decayed decadence of roaring times.
At this point, I'd be content to live in their echo.
Somehow, there is peace in an uproar which you can silence at will.
And yet, therein lies the eminent sadness:
I am happy with images
and strings made of sound,
leaves, color, and night skies.

And where am I?
Why not surrounded by peeling paint?

O' tranquil star,
how peaceful these moments are
when my feet alone trace the lines of the wood on the floor.
How I love this silence
and you.
And how foolish can we be -
to think that these moments can last forever?

Abysmal

This steep falling
into indifference.

How swiftly the change.

To be in the same room
putting the night gown dress down,
my work clothes on,
whilst a spectator lies on the floor,
my lover by the window -
And you're not there.

Today, the ground is covered
in your grace.

All dressed in white,
it becomes the most perfect vision of you.