Life is a game called
“is there a god?”, and
many religions think
they’ve already won.
The Holy Men charge
users for using
their consoles, won’t let
go of (control)lers,
and, after eons,
they keep the cheat codes,
even the play book,
all for themselves (smart?),
while the players are
for points, or for fun,
shooting and blowing
things up and –behold,
they’re all keeping score
scorecards and playboards.
Saints and martyrs
(the “losers”), 0.
mystics, and buddhists?
For them, playing’s like
asking an 8-ball,
or throwing a ball
against a brick wall.
What if Duchamp saved
Mona Lisa by drawing
a beard on her face?
What if that moustache
on her lip tickled her and
made her laugh again?
Or was she seduced
by the Dadaist, escapes
the Louvre at night?
What if she feels free
in her disguise, steals the wings
that Leonardo made?
Will the bourgeoise just
let her live? She’s been art's slave,
boxed for centuries.
would've made da Vinci smile
and maybe say “touché.”
What purpose does my mouth have
if I become mute when
I see you?
What purpose do my eyes have
if I become blind when
I hear you?
What purpose does the air have
if I lose my breath as you
What purpose does language have
if I can only keep silent when
Trying to describe you
would be like trying to describe
silence, or nothingness; however,
I can find a thousand metaphors
and ways to perfectly express
how you leave me speechless
and how you've become
It is not the bird that flies; it is the wind,
carrying it as a mother would do
with her offspring.
It is not the fish that swims; it is the sea,
cradling it in its waves, to take it
to its briny deep.
It is not us who dream of other worlds;
it is other worlds and realms
the ones that dream
...of us, you see?
Spanish Version (Alegorías al re-verso)
No es el pájaro el que vuela; es el viento,
cargándolo como una madre
haría con su retoño.
No es el pez el que nada; es el océano,
acunándolo en sus olas, hasta
llevarlo a lo hondo.
No somos nosotros los que soñamos
con otros universos; son otros
mundos y reinos los que nos
sueñan… a nosotros.
I’ve always wondered what heaven is like.
I ask myself, is heaven a place? If so, how
can I get there? Do I have to wait until I die?
(Am I pondering these metaphysical matters
because of philosophical or eschatological
reasons, or am I just concerned with the events
that will happen in the end of my life?
Am I asking for an epiphany, or a revelation?)
Do I have to read the sacred texts from the many
religions that claim such place exists? Is there
a secret map to that realm, hidden somewhere?
Is there a secret door, or a secret key to the
Pearly Gates? Do I have to seek admission?
Live a righteous life? Be a saint? Is heaven only
reserved for immortals and mortals related to
the gods, like mythological heroes and demigods?
What price do I have to pay in this life,
for a one-way, first-class ticket to Paradise?
Was Homer right? Are the Elysian Fields really
located in the western ocean at the end of the
world? Do I just have to follow the stream of
Okeanos, the infinite river that encircles the
planet? Do I have to study the ancient science
of Cosmography, to map out a safe route and
navigate through the spheres? Do I have to steal
DaVinci’s schematics to build my own wings and
fly until I ascend like a soaring eagle (or descend
like a fallen angel down the exosphere) to spend
the Afterlife luxuriously, among the gods?
Will I be greeted and embraced by the divine,
or by supreme beings or deities like Zeus, Jehovah,
Brahma, Olorun, Odin, Allah, or Buddha?
Will I meet Daedalus and Icarus, the Wright brothers,
Amelia Earhart, and all those humans that dared
to reach the skies and leave the earth behind?
On this plane, happiness is a fleeting feeling, and
even if I’m able to see the stars in the cold of
night and feel the Universe cover me like a blanket,
there’s no warmth or light without the sun.
But I’d give anything to escape the cycle of
day and night –of life and death– just to be
able to feel the cosmos flow through me like
a river without the boundaries of the flesh, to
skinny dip and float around naked in Nirvana,
the sea of pure joy where no soul drowns.
Thoreau's feet walking the fragile beach
Thru the plums, dunes and sands of the times
Marconi's wave length sent and bent
The sail set in wake and breadth
A wake up America sign
The ecological landscape that escapes the minds eye
Gone in a blink and 40 winks
The philosophy of the minimalist
In earnest prayer under starry skies Practiced in cabins with no walls
The silence of empty halls that echo with the Oracle
Tickling the auricle
Reveled empty choices found contained in shells by the sea shore
The surf runs and roars
As it always has and always will
In time that stood still
I stand watch at the binnacle
Sexton set on the sights
Against the moonbeams and dreams
In spite of what it seams
I grasp the wheel and it's pins
Wooden handled grip
First landing ship
If you stepped off you'll stub your toe on a rock
In the land history forgot
My heart’s no different than yours
(or anyone else’s, for that matter).
It’s in the center of my chest,
as it has made its nest inside the
hollowness of my toraxic cavity.
It's no larger than the size of my fist.
It’s concave, divided into chambers,
and it's the most important muscle
in my fragile mortal body.
It weights exactly 227 grams.
It beats 101,000 times a day, and it
has pumped millions of gallons
of blood during my lifetime
through the aortha, the superior
and inferior vena cava, the pulmonary
artery, the left and right atrium,
and the left and right ventricles.
It has also been portrayed almost perfectly
in a dozen different paintings by Frida Kahlo
(but not because it's beautiful or photogenic),
and it's in pieces, but not broken
(and each piece has an edge to it that makes
all of them fit together, like a puzzle).
My blood is thick and sweet, like red honey,
but the worse-for-wear machine
that keeps it warm (the motor that creates
energy and entropy out of a constantly chaotic
and turbulent flow of fluids) is covered
in oxidized barbed wire strands
and it’s loosely held in place by iron
nails that have become rusty,
thin veins and nerves, and a cupid’s
broken arrow. It contracts involuntarily,
without conscious thought, working
like a slave that has no master, and I can
neither control it, nor stop it, until it
finally gives out and caves in itself,
or implodes into the inter-dimensional
portal (or black hole?)
we call the soul.