In this labor of searching where the fundamental lays and truth rests,
the obvious disappears,
standard beauty bores itself to death
doesn't wait for anyone.
AS LONG AS.
As long as we continue to notice everything and fear nothing.
As long as we continue to walk with force and wonder.
As long as there is feeling that knows magic and silence.
As long as there is fire warming inside,
there is hope
a path on it’s own
where mystery is profound
your mind wont chase your thoughts
because what you are
is busy doing what comes out
as a piece of untouched earth
the metamorphosis of a butterfly.
A way of going,
without going back.
A way of doing,
without being done.
They don’t want you to be but you have to.
Faceless heads fill space,
a nose smells air that moves hair
that you usually cover
shaving prejudices will be a better deal
and a better way to end the season
summer doesn’t lie alone
and you will be shopping inequality
just in case,
separated from your phone’s case
just a sec.
in one sec.
technology makes you mechanically correct
and dis-functionally correct,
It’s that okay ?
Therefore there is no mistake
between your double click
and their enter.
Like: they don’t want you to be
Comment: but you have to.
To Federico García Lorca.
Listening to the noise of crashed trash I wonder where he is,
to challenge the barriers of time and the oddness of the one we live.
What understands fragility
what becomes weak
Complexity wasn't his match but quiddity
and he was killed.
as time goes by with the new generations and their no-souls
the same ocean and your beaches,
my flowers and the bright moon,
you will always be understood in your body
that sings pristine over the grimy grass that stinks without saying where.
A cup of you
The day opens white in between clouds and my pillow,
forgetting the importance of the sun that shines always alone.
I am reaching to the cup that skips coffee and my teeth,
while you are sleeping next to your most dear dreams.
Dark boy with dark eyes
we met the year of the leaf,
the summer that let us cuddle together
under my rainy sky filled into a full moon.
But a day is not a time,
rather a metaphor to understand life
and when your day will open wide white
all your clouds will smell the scent of my pillow,
and there will be magic in the sky
as I am reaching out to the first morning cup
that will be given a sense of freedom.
Trains go by and faces sleep on their windows,
as I soak my feet in memories of an unhealthy world
full of man made war and lots of widows.
Weapons and chemical war,
will be coming soon to everyone’s door.
Children crying on a parking lot.
What else is in there?
Who ‘s gonna to take the blame?
The pharmaceutical industry is hitting numbers again
while people are dying of cancer as a fucking silence game.
They sharpen the knife,
I drink up thinking of my mother’s faith.
Uphill and downhill
Are they a one way street?
The premature mind is born out of integration
Remember when you were a child?
An opened box of wonders
The ultimate exploration of worms
Are you still interested in finding?
Do you find yourself reinventing yourself?
Do you think beyond what you were taught?
Were we ever taught anything?
Considering the fact everyday could be the mother of change
Would you arrange your suitcase of life?
While tea-ching might be another set of tea-boards at 5
Would you drink out of my broken cup if I promise you the cup is not the drink?
Is this sentence properly sentenced for your internal grammar?
Does your money make you happy?
Do you like my shoes?
I picked them at your stoop last night
And I made them shine.
Between all the chances you had
you made it,
a transitory wave
an easy “here”.
Present in present,
a frequency embodying flesh,
a mirror to the unknown
that thinks and had,
and chances hanged.
brick of bricks,
to find out
I remain present in the state of a simple flower
because when the flesh is gone,
the butterflies will still fly
and wont loose their power.
Today I look at the words that made my figure this quiet arrow,
eyes play together and figures hide behind the sound of the sparrow.
All fields are open listening to the eastern winds sing to the withe owl.
Hermano! We are all one and the same.
Do not confuse your shadow.
Winter in the city.
The snow of Manhattan blows against beliefs and wolves
and men carry resentment as manufactured fault.
When Fridays are gone,
nobody thinks of Mondays as a day of love.
The snow of Manhattan has thrown away souls and matter,
from all the remaining few bones.
Light is clear,
but nights can be dark cold.
Sundays at church,
people sing and pray
and wait for the winter to snow.
don't let anything disturb the reflection of your gaze in my eyes.
Talking about the thing people search, preach and continually try to find:
patterns, lights, cigarettes, my coffee mug and God’s mind.
Just give me what is left inside,
inside and out
I am undressing my mouth.
Love is the reason why the sun comes out
and you and I are here,
while everything else disappears.