travel

Timelessness

Unable to escape this vast dawn

hanging upon me like an atmosphere of chemicals

a mechanical tingling from ages’ past

I’ve collected the motionless quantum of floating seeds
constantly mirroring the pinpoints of valleys

as seen from peaks of departure

I’ve spoken with the dark red shade of tomorrow
perhaps seducing despair to taste my blood

her choice fluttered like a hummingbird’s thought

I’ve fallen in those perimeters of wonder
unfelt timelessness

incapable of resisting the language of rising steam

The old skins of trees invade the territory of sense
while curves vague as clouds

              embroil this journey’s end.

Go back to Beyond Language

Corner’s spiral

 

 

Come trace each spiral’s end

the emptiness of every word

fullness of rippling chords

wondering, strange wondering

                      those that once were

where has the smoke of their pipes

          traveled?

To them we were distant dream’s child

a rising vapor over their colossal deaths—

serene nocturnal sounds

Gathering ink droplets

      over prayer’s whisper

and the fall, rushing leap

bottom deep darkness into

deep immensity’s embrace

Violin growth of love

the stream naturally light

flight upon mountainous sleep

crossing threads of cycles and returning

Entering moment’s origin

returning every minute

                       arriving over and over again.

Traveling at night

 

 

A black umbrella
my sky
The moon
another street-lamp
Sleeping houses
populate my horizon
Following the curvature of a continent
the window is my pillow
My eyes
magnets attracting
the elements of the unknown.
If the clouds
scatter and break the sky asunder
into a thousand little islands,
If on top of trees
the world below would not be so strange
I would visit every cumulus bay
every rising branch…
How far must a man go
to find out what he seeks?

Heavy Steps

painting_dreams_lost_man

Old and brittle man
walking alone, hands behind back
dragging his feet, stooping his head
as the town of Itacaré swam
in melodies of reggae, seasons of breeze
Poor old man, stumbling amongst thoughts
entreating pain to numb his soul
so as to never suffer harshly
from the whip of regret —
Why does sadness allow me to forgive you;
come here old man
sit by my side, listen to the stars
there are still things your pain
                     will never mar