I am drenched in words
like skin that covers my intellect
while sitting here
I do not feel like any word
neither floating nor sinking
in between two nondescript states
perhaps more
plucking my names
human, animal, person, soul, pablo
petals – I exist or I exist not
an empty receptacle
in my hand
or a savory thought
or gone with the wind.
wind
in the fog
Inaccessible trees
stand in the fog
as the limits to my world,
a fog dense and metaphysical
trees alien as my cavernous thoughts
a few brave lifeless sticks emerge from the snow
the milky wind brushing
whitening them slowly
with the impassible oblivion
that has set in,
an ivory spell
led astray into this cold nook
of washed away eternity,
while I’m encapsulated
in the immobility
of this white extraneous soul
a pleasing despair
that is felt
after each
footstep in the ice.
If…
If stories had some sort of reality I would narrate my dissolution amongst the heavenly bodies; if fantasies were not merely fictions I would vanish careless in the wind; if words were not all vain and empty I would tell everyone that life is a bubble of dream and we are nothing but footprints on sand.
If changing the world meant anything I would form a new republic; if truth existed I would refute the philosophers; if god existed I would be fearless to leave this world…
On my 26th birthday. January 7th 2008
The riddle of death
Stand, paralyzed
Under midnight’s neon
The wind is cold
Your lungs filled-with fear
The voices of the city silent
But yours angry and desperate
Then you say:
I was not meant to live
For I know not how to die
Silly mortal questions
Burdensome and disquieting
Aching uncertainties
Interrupting your sleep
How serious can it be
To die and nevermore be
Have we trembled for naught?
Expecting a snake
Which was only a rope
Sleep has come, today is born
Lost in duties, whatever follies
Unaware of future’s scheme
Nothing matters but this instant
Beyond Language 
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