I can still feel your kiss on my lips,
like a ghost limb that is not my own.
You even haunt the air that I breathe.
My ears still hear the words you wrote
with your breath, in spectral-clear ink.
They just float in the air like white smoke,
hovering around like disembodied entities
that are so alien, they're not even from Earth;
they're ancient and immortal time travelers,
going back and forth between the here and
now and yesterday, and that vast empire
in the great beyond called Oblivion.
They might as well have survived the
rise and fall of the nation of Babel, as they are
like its towers and its pillars; as they are
like its rocks and its ruins. As they are
my sublime destruction. As they are
my constant state of confusion
and my own private Babylon;
my undoing and downfall.
Love made us crazy
in the same way
the solar eclipse
made us lunatics.
The sun went out.
The world went out.
It's just you and me,
standing naked in
the middle of the
Two patients in the
same asylum, with
the same hallucination
and the same delirium
of believing that we
were made for
That we can fly
and we can fall
from the earth
to the sky, and
on the clouds;
That the force
of gravity is
just a myth,
we can defy;
That there's no
way we can fall
off the edge of
our own little
in a parallel
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.