I didn't understand the guy who
said that we as observers can alter reality,
maybe it's just that I can't trust anyone
who tells me I can change the world
from my living room but
come on, think about how can we
alter what we can see because we
don't see these tiny particles, or is it
that we do alter them by looking
into the void to where a wall tells us
that there's a swarm of these things,
or we just don't because if we
are in fact altering them the wall might
turn into a different wall, let's just say, or if
there are two of us looking, it might
as well change from my wall to your beach and if
there are more of us we might end up looking at
an infinite ever-changing never anything per se of marvels
that we all carry around and our observation
would fire up to the swarm of particles
when in apparent reality I was just
standing there staring at my wall alone
the one wall I was looking at with the eyes of the blind,
who see by not seeing.

Marriage
is a
mirage.

Madness so soft
ripples feel like feathers.
Melodies lurk within silence.

River's clipped wings rest
on the riverside.
Winter plucks its wavy strings:
Time's not going anywhere.

My thoughts of you
keep on increasingly using
my memory resources.
Any time now until my dreams
crash under the load.

On the fog

The same way that
silence has a voice
your hands have a song.
That tactile melody
will find me first.

What a beautiful word after all.
Who would not love to be a candle
                        for some time,
just to have a dark room at his
or her entire disposition
in which to flick, in which to dance
with a windy darkness
so very much consumed
by the almost carnal desire
of possessing the light.

Let's pretend for a moment
we don't know its meaning.
Let's pretend it's just an echo
that has trespassed from the past,
cracked the arrow of time
to reach our ears as delivered
by a XIX century candle
that was just put out.

The flickering of lights should have
in fact a sound. In fact,
the dancing shadows on the walls
should scratch them make them
scream the horrors of their
silent nature, make the walls dance
and not only the cruel appearance
of the walls dancing, flickering,
as if concrete could play
to be wax for just one day.

I possibly can prove
that all major poets of this language
have used it
until the poor word died out,
until it was no more
than a leafless trunk,
mere linguistic trunk deprived
of the leaves of meaning.

But there's no resisting
the crucial titillating magic
of what gives us the chance
of referring to all which is so frail,
that could perish by the same gasp
that takes from us such frailty.