Feb. 29


The house is now in order.

The voice in my head
suggests that I add a slice of avocado.

I follow diligently the suggestion
to leave the stones out of the foundation.

You can wreck it now,
bring back chaos: it is only a pet.

The description of what is,
without category or detail.

It is only a beetle stuck to your eye.

Whatever is achieved
should not always be remembered.

There are two types of masturbation,
related to time.

The closer you study a situation,
the more strenuous it is to establish a fact.

It has never rained so much in 150 years.

I used to think
despair was the only answer to life.

There is a great wave approaching us,
nobody can predict what kind of light it will bring.

I have never before struggled so much
to ignore harmony.

I think we will sell the piano
and start a new dream.

It is the essence of life to be occupied;
water is often involved.

The avocado falls to the floor;
tears swell up.

The kids arrive and the logos begins to tremble.

It is still raining outside,
since the beginning of the day.

I wipe off the first word
and then say: hungry?

The girls like the way
we have styled the living room.

This sentence evokes a sensation of existence.

People are picking up the news
with their bare hands.

I said I love you,
but concealed a parcel of shield as I blinked.

The heart has a necessity to explode,
regardless what surrounds,
what obscures it.




21st century poetry

other ways



There are other ways
than language.

Let’s observe
the fire before us.

The way a match
ignites to startle
a moment.

Look for the softest light
a distant wildfire
quiet because it is
involved in night.

The kind of surface
that melts the sun
into a tiny
puddle of gold.

This is more of
primeval voice
returning its wind
to the rain.

This is mouth
allowing for song
to water its

This is still
earth living
behind a window
seeing its ground
pregnant fruit.

There are other ways
than ideas.

Let’s dry the story
and blind the

See the strong
shadow stumble
to break its

The ground
with the patience
of time.

This is more
of the ocean
leaking its body
to closely
the sand.

Once we pull
as a thorn
out of the world.

and only
will remain.

the fog



The name
of memory
is water

the gate
is your own lips

the tongue
tasting its noise
like density
born to be kissed

another’s lips
transparent, liquid,
eager river,
flooding the islands of taste

that is war
softer than death
passage carved
by lightning

the buds aware
the whole mouth
is fire

the mystery
is rung
as breath

the primordial
gentle iridescence
the whole journey
of history

your heaving
and leaving
the mystery

the gate
the water

the dream
back like fog
from the water’s surface.

amount of unknown



A colossal amount
of unknown
slides down
the pearl
barely visible
of the sky.

A naked
I shivered
the cold wind
arranged as moss
invisibly padding
my arms
the car races
its lights inhaled
by the horizon.

My meaning
on the weather
low lying thoughts
heavy with mist
or diaphanous silence
for intelligence
to connect the bird’s speech
with the stone’s stare.

How sharp
must the world
the geese in arrow
the last sun
cutting deep my eye
blinding with wetness
the world
inside my tear.

My story
melts back
into buddha
tonight it’s night
more like star
as long stream
of light.

over days


I stretched light
into knife
to cut the cloud
one strong drop
of eternity

What hand
faster than sun
to slice illumination
into tool
and then apparently
disassemble time.

like feathers
suspended in that dream
after pillows exploded
and silence so hypnotic
it resembles symphony,
the feathers and your eyes
vibrating like strings.

Then back just minutes
before the tree
enters the sky
with dark veins
into the night’s
quiet body.

That was suggested
by mind
whose story is pinched
from the perfume
illusion prepares
from time.

Was the world
a seat
old me
weaving yarn
after yarn
light, sea, dome, thorn
bit by bit
thing after thing
into a language
of surface

the saga of silence
deepening as strata
to cover
the hills of the toes

and the eyes
those shores
curling back
to their source.

Being illuminated in one act



The dark enters the scene (left)
to crush the last day
into trim of twilight.

You sit sensing the wall
watching your mind
being sponge
absorbing gainsboro
from the wall’s last

You must be struggling

the ocean the sea a shelter
in some mountain.

There is a crackling
in the woods,
a decision to move.

The wind
not an object of pain
travels through the pines.

Needles trembling
thin creatures
not afraid
but as a web of wave
through which
you already
in awe.

The wall reemerges
(mistlike entrance)
to become a window.

ashore by the emotion.

Drinking the ocean,
drop by drop
the mind craves its break.

You look up.

Enter moon (right)
conscious of its own silence.

The moon
casts its light
an echo bare
washing your chest.

Your deepest response
allows a pause
first to savor
and then smile.

You close your eyes.