A Raven Night

A Raven Night

What would they know?

My voice was shouting

Across the room an empty cross

To professed the crossing paths

That have awaken humanity:

The Love Song of T.S Eliot

Was drowned among the fools

That giggled and refused

To listen to its questions;

Whitman, at times, was thought

To be obscene among the puritans

And the half sleep that will wake

When sinful nouns forced their morals

And ethics to its crisis;

I sipped my wine and shouted louder

Verde que te quiero verde

While they continued numbly listening;

Then, La Casada Infiel and an intimate

Bullfight personal reflexion;

And I shouted louder and louder

Until I drowned all the noises,

The giggles, the ridiculousness;

The wine was blood

The flesh consumed

The cross erected

The fools gone.

What would they know!

I once had a dream...

I once had a dream...

             I once had oxygen,

             I had a Dancing Serpent

             I, we, rained with fire.

             I, we, extended our existence together.

             Dreaming and reality was the same,

             the sheets, the covers, the forces of nature,

             the magic sand, the beach--not yet forgotten--

             the warm of your womb, the wind blowing,

             the kiss under the waves;

             the canary dying for us at Leo,

             were our dreams and reality.

             The magical reality was us,

              the magical dream was we:

              “it was such a beautiful dream”,

               and I, we, did not protected it,

               “from any remnants” of a cruel reality.

               Are we safe to be real, or is it time

               to prolong and protect the dream,

               before it kills us completely ? That is,

               if it is not already dead!

                                               

               I live to dream and die,

               and if I have died my dream,

               then to live without dreaming

               is to already be dead alive.

.                                               ... and then we killed it… for another.

Dream One

Dream One:

I walked through my past and
saw the images and shadows,
Of a fragmented life;
Recapturing the essence of my being
in a pointless collection
Of memories;
The bricks were the pages
Of an unwritten childhood,
The pictures were testaments
Of a dream long gone,
The struggles were part
Of a reality,
And surviving was
The constant up-and-down.

I saw my self as
I see myself now:
Out of my body
Into my being,
Reflected in a memory
Not yet acquired,
Accepting the universe,
Questioning life.

One day I may see again
the pictures of today
Reflected into a past
Not yet known,
And I will question again,
Submerged into my being
Collecting myself again
In the palm of my hands.

Her

The mundane pulled me aside
And I drowned in silence;
The reasonable and rhetorical
Explained the non-beings:
Planning was in order
And tribulations
Were the order of things.

But: I could not stop thinking
How the moon was orbiting
The contours of her body;
The wine reaching my being
Embracing her with drops
Of tainted and desired sin

Succumbed to possibilities
I was in the wine
The wine in her
Quenching our thirst,
Satiating not.

Background conversations
Of Adam and Eve,
The latter was a perfection
Of all things and creatures
Created for God himself;

Adam was the abomination;
The son of God and Eve
Who seduced his mother
And committed the original sin.

The wine continued
And I intuited myself
In every pour of her skin
Dipped in red wine
Commemorating her creation.

The conversations drowned:
The black and white image
Consolidated herself in me,
The blouse dropped
And I died a sweet death.

The mundane never came back.

Human Nature Reversed

Human Nature Reversed:

Soldiers, weapons, tanks,
Invasion, presented
As glory, patriotism, hope:

How long do we have to endure
The pains of inhumanity;

How long do we have to wait
For humanity’s reawakening;

The L.A Philharmonic performs,
And scenes of war appear celebrated,
Portrayals of uplifting grandiosity;

Disarticulated games of war
Intertwined with musical harmony,
Human nature reversed.

To reject portrayals of war
As beauty and entertainment,
Subconsciously and consciously,
It is Society’s call.

Let's talk about peace

Let’s talk about peace,
To integrate,
And defend life.

Let’s transgress nations,
Overcome flags,
To preserve peace
And truly exist.

Let’s unify our universe
With our people,
To Amalgamate elements,
Of skin and bones.

Let’s sing a song
Of peaceful revolution,
To awaken the human spirit
And recount life.

Let’s transform our streets
In-to human arteries,
Pulsating, circulating, palpitating,
Endless peace.

Endlessly Running

Endlessly Running

Today I was running from place to place
thinking that I was going somewhere;
then I saw an old friend,
a sensitive man that has not yet
lost his nature.

This man exposed to me
a reality that we all must confront;
with his voice he delayed
and paused at every word
the truth we must endure.
Leopardi took his voice
to submerge me in a place
that can only be known in silence;
I felt mute not knowing how to reply.

My silence had all the possible feelings
conceived in a human being;
agony, anguish, desperation, happiness, loneliness,
silence... silence... silence!
Then I asked myself, why am I running?
If in fact I am not going anywhere.

My space was filled with silence,
in it I could not contain any longer the agony of man—
but we must accept.
The road could not be eternal
otherwise all those feelings will never be felt
and our space would be filled with arrogance and malice.

Not any longer running,
nor tracing the steps of insensitive-people
I have joined that space to idle my body in silence;
in that silence our existence,
in that silence our non-existence,
always moving, yet not going any where.

The universe is moving and in it
some people make it move better;
kind and valuable people that had not yet forgotten
the sensitivity that unite us all.
I think the greatest gift one can give
is to remind others that our existence in this universe
is only a fragment of what nature intended.

Today a kind man held me back
in my worthless run to no-where
pointing me towards the path
while singing muteless notes of silence.

Endlessly Waiting

Endlessly waiting, twisting ideas:
Collapsing in silence, in space,
In a reminisce of a not yet
Distant memory

Thinking of you, trapped in fear:
Like a little boy again, vulnerable,
Colliding internally between yes and yes,
Between no and yes

Thinking of you, blending in darkness:
Accepting, denying and finally
Feeling you within the shadows
Of my skin

Endlessly waiting in collapsed feelings:
Rejoining and overcoming all
At a thought of a distant breath,
Or moon or Orion’s skin profile

A Normal Day

A Normal Day

I have not died many deaths lately,
And for the first time I feel
That I am truly dying.

Confused in a mixture of feelings
I tumble like a drunken-man;
Following the steps of humanity.

And when I think I have figured it out
The secret of life,
Strange people come around
To remind me that certain things
Can never be known.

No wisdom is sufficient
To deal with feeble minds
Whose wish is to stay put,
Motionless, in confused surroundings.

I give up to let their minds flow,
Through an endless path of agony.

I am exhausted of my existence,
My days get heavier with time;
I walk every day as if chasing
Against daylight;
Then I realized that night has fallen
And I have grown weary
Yet I stumble my days through.

My day ends and I sit down and laugh
Because my exhausting walk
Has not taken me anywhere.

I am home again,
Not following any longer
The steps of man.

Painting 4

Painter, am I:

I am the waves

Thrusting,

I am the wind

Whistling,

I am the sand

Feeling.

I am the mantle

And the stars,

I am the dance

And the moves,

I am the whispers

And the message.

I am the brush

Without paint,

And canvas

Without a frame,

And painter

Without a body,

And subject

Without being.

I am the tracer

Of lips

Not the kiss,

I am the liquid

In the rim

Not the flow,

I am the brush

Of dreams

Not the reality.

Painting 3

Suspended painting:

Idling, waiting, dying:

The brush has idled

The mind suspended

The painting and colors

confused.

The painters are in limbo

And the question

Whether to continue or not

Has been set.

The canvas in the corner

Understands,

It is being abandoned;

The colors may never

Touch it again

And oblivion

Is Art's destiny.

Let it not be forgotten

Nor burnt;

The fire within

Was not consumed

And the flames

Have perpetuated

Within the ridges

Of her being.

Painting 2

Invisible paint:

A full moon no longer.

The brush traced

With invisible paint

A longing, serene,

Sensual,

waning moon.

I imagine

The ocean waves

Retreating not;

Tumbling in the sand

The Shiva-like goddess

Danced with her arms

Intertwined around

Her waist

While the sea gently

rolled the waves

Onto the sand.

The sand canvas

That I could not see;

I at the distance,

Traced with an invisible

Paint

Part of the shadows

Imprinted in the profile

Of the waning moon.

An unfelt hand

with unseen fingers

Played with the waves,

Perpetuating her scent,

Soft and eluding,

Sweet and familiar,

in her pores.

The brush disappeared,

The sand canvas retreated;

My mind unsuspended

Sees the fruits projected

In her eyes,

And the scent in her hands

Penetrate my being:

She smiles, and tonight,

She dreams.

Painting 1

Unfinished Painting: 

Sketching ideas,
Expanding with colors,
Mindful and sensual
Perceptions and desires:

To an unexpected pent-up

Kiss long sealed in the brush,

Awaiting the right moment

To unseal and succumb

To the shortness of breath

To drown ideas and language.

The shadows twisting,

Turning, commingling,

Between red and black

Between kiss and kiss

Between a stroke of a brush

Between us and we;

The wine color finished,

The brushing dance

Continued,

Intertwining with colors,

tasting deep in-herself,

Quenching desires.

All I see are shadows,

Projecting shadows,

Shadows mingling

With shadows

Projecting and turning

On a white canvas;

All colors between

Red and black

Between black and black,

Between brush and brush,

Spread out the plural me.

The black rain boots

Leaning naturally

Outside the canvas frame

Witnessing the painting,

Tracing her steps,

Mingled with the shadows.

The play of light and dark,

The chiaroscuro,

Revealed a whisky

In the upper corner

Untouched, unseen.

Gently the boots

Leaned up and slowly

Walked away:

The footprints remain.