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.

It is hard to speak about
what you want to speak about
when all you do is speak about
the way you’d speak about

what you want to speak about.
Things get worse then when you try
to speak about the way you'd like to
speak about these things you hold so dear

that you can't help but speak about them,
to the point you mean to speak about
the way you'd love to speak about them.
But is unbearable when after so long

of trying everything to explain the how,
you fall out of love with what you wanted
to speak so madly about, and all is left
are the ghosts of departed quantities of genius,

the maddening silence after your great idea is gone,
that cigarette ash flake floating in the afternoon,
so graciously convinced of being smoke,
perhaps even a cloud.

You can't see how many minds
have exploded due to
it does not matter now what amazing  
methapataphorical event,
and you will never know,
no matter what blew shattered
disbanded your mind
because after the explosions
the pieces started traveling
at light speed away from you until,
nearly infinite Doppler Effects afterwards,
all you can see from where you stand is
infraredness, for which you'd need
of course, special equipment.
But then again, your mind had exploded,
so it would be of little use for you
on your present situation.
                  Unless,
you are yourself some kind
of Schrödinger's cat person,
and can enjoy
some superposition state,
because till this point
no one but you has found out about
your mind explosion.
Or maybe not just yet.

__________
The blank page is a loaded gun, dangerous,
full of beauty's entropy and combinatory dreams.
It's open source ethos, fidgeting with splendor,
with that momentum white of the sea at morning.
It's not a desert, for whoever's sake, is not a cliff,
neither where your mind goes make snow angel ideas,
nor a mute inbox that you keep refreshing:
The mind is just filled with horror for the void
when there's nothing else.
The blank page is a loaded gun,
a uranium mine field waiting for a chain reaction,
where the feelings will collapse upon themselves
and hurt the reader       by wounding the page,
the ink bled a testament to the violence
of the rapture always waiting to be born.