What no one will remember
The horizon alights like a dormant lip.
The most important thing of the day
was not seen but felt.
Joy was not in me but around me.
Like a pool of emotion, I drift from
one spill to another. Joy. Boredom. Dread.
I’ve been wandering the whole day. Looking
at things as if they were rocks covered in moss.
The clouds were protagonists .
They are immobile, the city below balloons in ripples.
The line between the lips swallows the light,
the waves and the purpose.
A delicate gulp. Swollen with twilight.
One single nerve aches.
The one whose function
is to sense life.
I have enough fall
to crack open
the yolk of essence
oozing through my
I keep evaporating
but the clouds
won’t integrate my
my thoughts taste
of cinnamon and world war
and yet they failed
it’s time to saw off
and let poetry
a stream of cars down the slopes of noon
I and the minutes, parts of clouds
the far-away phone rings November
these business suits still smell of rivers
shadows born from high buildings
all is peace in a busy day.
A night becomes clouded as we sometimes say ‘things happen’ abstractly, indifferently that it is suddenly August 2009 a veil of intellectualism is lifted a human face looks up mine, yours, whatever there are clouds, ideas, philosophies up there we look down, you, me, whatever barren reality wooden window frames dusty desks, unsharpened pencils feeble light, organic darkness you see the dark it doesn’t have a name then there is real silence scattered coins uncharged cell phones a sleeping wife that it hits you, me, what you will it is August 13th 2009 what a feeling.
There they were, shattered
sidewalks murderous sidewalks
frozen in their disorder, fractured by black color
and had to reach down
and pain their unfeeling scars
but this is not about sidewalks,
it resembles that primordial awe
or the seven cold nights of tribesmen
it intimates with old necessity
and the heavy mist that kills without moving
because further down by the hollow blackness
of cracked sidewalks and rapid decay
desasosiego, was called once in Spanish
spontaneous hymns of indigent earth
shadowless religions with no clouds on their backs
noiseless disaster tamed by echoed habits
stepping beyond – further into hopeless air
and with it, the truth concealed
hidden encounters with the ultimate Inexplicable
certainly having probed the depths of terror
the animosity of rebellion and the flakes of solitude
in what seems like ages of torment and desasosiego
by the unknown light of trembling – hardened
frozen and broken like irrelevant sidewalks
forgiving the ancient errors of willing blindness
alone, amongst these detached blocks of cold cement
my finger slithered their gaps,
and call me mad, lost and nocturnal – again,
I was nowhere, in calm beauty:
my irrelevant isolation.