what I do..what I..

They come into my house and take my thoughts away. They snatch them from my head and run like little puppies, petrified of the light. I do nothing but watch them, rocking my chair slowly and whispering little nothings. I mumble the nonsense of the world, but noone cares to listen. I mumble the nonsense of my heart, alive as it is idiotic, beating blindly for the frozen ones who dare not stay. Sometimes the laughter of the crowd is enough to heal me.

The many lists I've made of words that once made phrases lay around me unaware of their lack of definition. Phrases that once glorified emotions, faces that once resembled salvation now lay broken on the ground. I see them but cannot connect the lines and fix the puzzle once and for all.

This is no abyss, this is no end. This is not the limbo. Judgement is not valid in the waiting room. Far, how far we are, from that which we named heaven. Paradise is but an emergency exit. In the blur I struggle to recall what I was sent to do. They've taken my files with them, my name tag, so I am an enigma to myself. I open my mouth and mumble again, and out and loudly stumbles my ignorance, my excess of useless vocabulary, a fool dressed as a prophet in these days is the daily bread of the walking ones.

They feed from me and I wonder, if I bit myself, would I see the reflection too. Would I find in my skin traces of where I've been, narrations of loves I've lost, stories of women and men hidding in the trails of my veins. It is irrelevant to know the wars I've fought if am not yet victorious. it is damaging to understand the value of those words if I'm not able to pronnounce them.

They come into my house and take my ink away, but I do not chase them. Silently I stand from my chair, the bitten body aches, clumsy hands scratch the surface of me, and I become tired of mumbling. Half awake I sneak back to the cave where the voices of the crowd cease to exist.

Now I am nothing more than another petrified criature in the shadows. Now I am nothing more than another casualty of life. And so I wait for the sun to awake, and take me in his forgiving arms. I've not given up. Am recharging my soul.

radio show?

It's no accident.

How can we know
if we have found it...
That "something" we looked for along the shore
summer after summer...
That "someone" we evoqued every time
stars shining above us mercifully....
It's no accident, I've fallen.
and mom always said to have some patience.

How can I figure out
if the place you now have in me
is temporary
don't dissappear on me.
...if this discomfort that I feel
this lack of oxygen when we kiss
is good for my health
is it ethical
is it morally correct
to crave you this much...
don't you give up on me.

is there an instructional book
for all that love involves?
If only I could find it
and follow it line by line
and walk in tipy toes and whisper
and make only gentle love
and quietly worship whatever it is
that you've brought to my world...
so as to not disturb it...
If only I could do all the perfect things
without trying too hard to impress anyone...
so that it likes me enough
to return in the morning.

If only I could pronounce
only the right words
and make all the right movements
and have you for me and allow you to see...
but am not so careful.

How can we know
if we have found "it"
what are the symptoms
if there's no contract, is there a cure?

If only I had keen vision...
or you had brought a big sign
that said "I'm finally here".
Then I would know, and stop searching.
Then I would know,
I'd stop jerking away when you come close.
then I wouldnt be afraid
to loose control.

But I don't
and am not...
this can't lead to happy endings...
fairy tale? me? dont we know better than that?
If only I were so naive.
get me away, I cant breath
I need my world in order
I want to keep on living in the waiting room
until the light goes off...
if you're still here then...

if you're still here then...

if you're still here then...

....then it's no accident.

otro

Caminaba con los pies sucios de melancolia,
manos en los bolsillos buscando la proxima excusa para aferrarse a la orilla...
como si acaso fuera a encontrarla.

A veces entre sus dedos resbalaban razones temporales,
pero nada es suficientemente valido cuando uno decide rendirse.
Las descartaba una por una midiendo la distancia al suelo
caian informando que la anestesia en sus sentidos
habia perdido su efecto.

Lo hubieras visto...
imposible distinguirlo de entre nosotros.
Nos parecemos tanto ahora...
casi son colectivas las quejas y los suspiros,
es sindrome de apocalipsis de lunes en la noche,
territorio invadido por el ruidoso crujido del olvido creciente de Noviembre.

Llegue un segundo tarde
a amarlo.
Sirenas gritaron su deseo funebre
augurio de invierno, uno menos,
en horas extrañas nace su verso deforme.

Se quedo colgado en las miradas
cansado homenaje de arcilla
se quedo buscando ese par de minutos de elixir
que siempre alucinaba al amanecer.
Yo no pude salvarlo, no supe como.

Se quedo inutil en el aire
inmovil, aun horas despues de haber caido
y todos respiramos su desespero
todos morimos con el...
afortunado.

Lo hubieras visto...
Que azul tan hermoso el de sus ojos...
casi parecia por fin estar feliz
sobre la acera.