Is it hunger
Or anxiety,
Or a desire to keep concentrated?
The result is
A ***** keyboard,
Sticky fingers,
Unnecessary eating
And a need to brush the teeth.

I knew what it was about,
I agreed and I wanted.
Turns out, things were different.
Now I want to explore further,
I want life to be more,
I want it to be transit,
I want melt things into fluidity,
I want to be unleashed,
I want be part of someone else's envy
(What does that say about me?).

I expected nothing
And yet, now I can't
Be where I was,
Contained.

It's not expectation that frustrates.
It is the void after a great experience.

Half ways are not halfs,
They're two thirds or more,
The midpoint does not account
For the prior doubts,
The self empowerment,
The fights against our louder inner judging voices.
They're midpoints,
But most of the world
Is hidden from space,
Things are in all 37 dimensions.

Half ways is just a reminder
That though most of the work is done,
It's the last half that lead to an end.

I once heard a story
That a man, alone,
Built his empire,
Dealt with all his ****,
Fought armies single handed.

He would follow his plans,
Be appreciated for his good work,
Defy all injustices,
Defeat his own corruption.

Of course it is a story,
Not because of all the accomplishments,
Or the act of bravery,
Open chest against the world.

What makes it unbelievable
Is remaining steady throughout it all.
To build oneself
Is to change oneself.

I am in need of a routine,
A habit to keep me disciplined,
To maintain my goals on track,
To make my joy productive,
To put into the world
Everything I think
I can do to make it good.

Relentlessly I fight
This urge to reach greatness,
I feed the monster father of procrastination
Delaying laurels and rejection
For an inexplicable fear.

I need a routine
To allow me mediocrity,
And the immediate consequence of evolution.

I need to act,
More and more,
Frequently,
Carelessly,
Intentionally.

Act is the inevitable movement
That accompanies the one-way arrow of time.

I still lack the courage
To reach my freedom.
I lack the desire to walk,
To step forward,
To dig deeper.

I lack the finesse
To understand what's hurtful,
I lack the ambition
To seek my own identity,
I lack the grit to stand out for myself,
I lack company to keep me warm,
And I lack loneliness to keep me centered.

These days
It seems hard to fill the holes
And every time
I lose parts inside me
And new lacks arise.

It is an exercise
To be one.

Convicted murderer locked in his cell
Watched by guards, news and defenders of morality.

They say about the case: "Thirty years? Too few!"
They say about the judge: "He's a *****!"
They say about the policeman: "He should have killed him!"
They say about the prisoner: "Human? No, he  ain't!"
They say about the dead: "He's a saint!"

We sleep peacefully seeing the beast jailed,
the criminal act contained,
as a reward for the things we were deprived:
The murders we did not commit (but wanted),
The aggressions suppressed (but wanted),
The lack of character we did not manifest (but, hell, we wanted!),
The sick look in the mirror we learned to mask.

Killing is not just pulling the trigger.
It is about the indifference,
about all the fingers pointing out failures,
about the accumulated pain of every struggle,
about greedy desires fueled by what we see daily,
about the lack of power, from cradle to coffin,
about the eyes we meet everyday but cannot see.

What is worth a fair sentence
over an ever unfair life?
What dose of love will fall
in the remains of a life built in such lack of compassion?
Why do we keep on returning to eyes and teeth
while Hammurabi remains buried for tens of centuries?

We do not fear the murderer,
we fear our own rage, our frailty and lack of control.
We proudly watch the misery of the prisoner
for we renounced the free animal
for the imprisoned human.

Poem yourself
For nothing expects nothing from you.
You can only be
Rhyme, rhythm and content.
Everything else
Is superflouous.

There are hidden prices
To go through the highways.
The destinations are always known,
The landscape is known,
And there is only repetition.
Nothing is created, and
Movement becomes ephemeral,
Incapable of producing anything
That will outlive the own highway.

There are hidden rewards in clearing territories:
Everything is new,
Opportunities lie anywhere,
Everything will make you stronger.
But harshness comes alongside,
Callused feet, cracked hands to open ways,
Sleepless nights in a mixture
Of cold, fear and anxiety with the things to come.

There is no authenticity in routes already traveled.
In somewhere, still unaccessed,
Lies what composes us,
Our unique voice tone,
Our journey that might lead
To our potential super-humans
If we learn to use discomfort as a weapon
And comfort as a momentary prize.

I rise into the world of being,
Born, bleeding, crying, seeing.
By any chance
Birth made me happen,
Curiously curious,
Helplessly questioning, wandering,
Somewhat philosopher,
Somewhat physicist,
Somewhat lost trying to create new labels.

I was born
To be in the world,
To deal with questions without answers,
To find my own sense.

I am here for no reason, though.
I am here to be here.
To see it through,
To live it through.

To question is just
A way of being here.

I hear the bells
And I see the lights
To request me out of me,
To update me
Lives I lived in other life,
To answer questions I did not make.

I am a filter
Or everything else is a filter,
It is a choice,
Conscious or not.
One either chooses what to see
Or is chosen,
One either has intent,
Or will be intended.

To select is the ultimate art to be learned.

Every house
Has another house within.
In the smells, the roughness of the walls,
In the little cracks
That barely are seen.

The voices remain there,
The dreams remain there,
Our gentle touches remain there.

It is also in the furniture.
The same house with different furniture
Is another house, with another house.
The tables lose their colors,
And is still a table,
A chair changes until no chair endures:
It is a tree once again,
In a forest of other chairs
And doors, and wardrobes.

We cannot sit anymore,
We cannot rest,
Neither be there:
It's somebody else's house.

But between the cracks
The air blows
A distinct sound
Of every spoken words
In this house
Of fathers, mothers,
Sons, workers, masons.

Bricks are just bricks.

I will once again
Be deprived of rest
For the sake of movement,
For the economy,
For the reason,
For the fire in engines,
For pulps,
Bulbs,
Bulls, dulls and dolls.

Half words corrupted
For the increasing lack of control,
A time within my time
To mark hours within my hours,
Corroding my moments
Into a drifting yaw.

Ungoverned in direction
Of a natural collision
Against shields left behind,
Forgotten, but solid,
Shields against will,
Shields against pleasure,
Shields against animals inside,
Shields against killing time.

I anguish for the incompleteness
In everything I produce,
In the words I pronounce,
In the interruptions of flows,
I anguish for the circle has no end,
I anguish for the ideas that left untouched,
For the inspiration underutilized,
For the balance never to be found.

I anguish for I anguish.
There is no end
To what has no start.

The moon is bigger on the dark side,
But I'm moved by the waves of the bright side.
I hide, but I always know
What is it the I hide,
So what's the point?

Inside my missing spaces
I find my own pieces,
In what empty space I fill me,
If I'm defined by my emptiness?

How do I define me with words
Hollow as a flight in space,
Precise and distant definitions,
Incapable of adjusting to a vague chaos,
Only understandable by the light of a microscope,
Unaccessible to signs,
Dissonant of what I feel,
Of a laughable ungrace?

I run from what defines me,
From my sentimental proofs,
I locate myself in what takes me far from home.

I'm uncapable of recognizing me
For I look in the mirror, and I recognize myself:
I know I never had blue eyes,
I know how my hair was, and how it's not anymore,
I know healed wounds hurt more.

I've lived for 500.000 kilometers
Never counted the travels around my world,
But I keep going,
Map and territory,
Language and message,
Thoughts and actions,
Sailing through matter and frequency
Through the ocean that keeps me apart from the world.

Every tiny fraction
of movement and action
cannot be re-done.

Lost attention
is a lost moment,
forever a lost sight,
forever vanished
in the irresistibility of time.

Things we lose
are things we never ought to own,
are Destiny's belongings,
are other's gestures
never to be received by us,
connections hanging in thin air,
never to be captured.

Awareness is a warm gun.

Through fissures of the world
We build our knowledge,
Through fissures between us and others
We construct relationships.

Through fissures in time
We try (effortless) to predict future,
Understand past,
Control present,
But it's all fissures.

All but little cracks,
Percentages of reality,
Small parts of the world
That we are able to capture.

We cannot live life in completeness.
We are built through our fissures.

Every calm lies fury within.
Like flowers on a tomb
Of an unexpected death.

It is the inner aggression,
The forgetfulness of the world,
Calm is ancient and, as such,
A vestige, the remnant of existence.

Calm is remote,
Keeps us faraway,
It is the missing ship
Never to arrive.

Where there is calm
There is latency
Of a sleeping giant,
The  outlying asteroid
Sudden to collide in an Earth's desert.

I want to act above calm
So, in fury,
I'll let peace reign.

Is it hopeful
To expect a failure
In order to learn deeply?

Is it hopeful to be right
Even if the result is catastrophic?
Or to hope for a blackout
For a dark night to sleep in the city?

What is it hope gives us?
A small carrot in front of our noses,
Or the ability to be super-human?

Is it hopeful
To not believe in hope
But still believe in a brighter future?

Hope is the very most useful thing
Among the useless things.

I know deeply my solitude,
Its unique smell,
Its thick cloud,
Its condensation,
The solitude within my solitude.

I know I am not there when it comes,
I know that, small or big,
I become tiny,
I know the weights get lost,
The orders become vain,
The moments accumulate
In a constant unperceived passing through.

I know every search for oneself
And for belonging
Cannot be otherwise lonely.
One needs to be lonely in order not to be.

We spend our time
Building mirrors
So we can see ourselves
Wherever we are, touch, see.

At times we're lost
For we don't resemble
These mirrors anymore.

The truth is
They weren't mirrors
At any time,
But instant captures,
Limited by space, time and depth.

The mismatches
Make us.
The dissonant jazz chords
Are more powerful
Than majors.

The has to be
Something of misunderstood,
Of somewhat unexplained,
Or a reluctant mystery
That whenever something is
Discovered, a new unpredicted face
Of it is revealed.

Raise to the empty,
Nothing would fit anywhere
If wasn't for it.

We are sealed by our bodies,
But we can only stretch
To reach what's outside.

The capital of vertigo,
of the hollow structures,
of the lack of space that evidences
the abyss between us,
capital of deviations
in our ways and looks,
of the events,
of circulation, of movement,
of the people oppressed in villages, favelas,
and occupations,
of the ugly smoke that arose
erasing people,
erasing
what has never been seen.

The debris are heavier
than the building.

Then I saw  the world collapse.
I saw life be swallowed
by hungry geological cracks
(don't know by what chance I escaped).

I saw mountains smashed
as if they were sand castles
by wild wind gusts.

I saw matter disintegrate,
I rode in a light beam,
touched accidentally an unnoticed electron,
and I watched from inside a chain reaction.

I read the book where lies all the rules
of every relation, of every physics,
and the letters started fading,
the sudden white pages would say no more,
these pages were now endless (but white),
and by my side volcanoes started spitting ice,
my body were now bigger than Earth,
that covered my body,
that covered Earth.

And, suddenly, all that were bad
were now good,
and I was judged by the people I helped,
and was punished by good behavior,
and was calmed down by deep darkness,
and what I did wrong freed me,
the cold burnt me,
the beauty hurt my eyes,
and thrash would raise me to sublime,
and when I jumped of the edge,
I felt the ground further in every second,
I felt the sky braking me,
I felt life run through my stopped heart,
and everything say goodbye in a deaf beat
produced by light vainly flouncing to avoid its end.

In the end, only I remained,
and nothing else matters.

All that's left, substantially.
The structure kept in the three-dimensional world,
Backbones and spines and ribs,
Cranes, femur and phalanxes.
But they're no more than memories,
A touchpoint of the past.

Everything else flows like the wind,
Present, but invisible.
Important, but immaterial.
Immortal, but perishable.

Bones are frozen clocks,
Remnants of stories and events.
In the end, they're more important as records
Than as personal memories.

I resist the touch of your skin,
for your heart no longer touches mine.
I resist walking your streets
for my eyes cannot meet yours.
I resist your ideas,
for mine have grown.

The resistance is of my soul
that have seen other souls,
that cannot be mirrored in just one soul,
that cannot be filled by it,
that is fragmented in millions of souls,
millions of pieces, of faces,
of desires, of movements, of thoughts.

Every act is a resistance:
it resists everything except the act.
Like the air,
I expand until walls resist me,
and then I find the cracks and holes,
to meet the open air
where I can expand indefinitely.

I resist you, but I resist more
the idea of you.
Of what you mean to me.
I resist giving myself to you
for it is what my every cell wants,
but I'm afraid I could not
be a whole self again.

What would you do
with this meaningful part of me?

Compose my reality,
Warn me of last year fashion,
Or a poisonous frog in the jungle,
Be my guide, at least when there is light.

Be my virtuosity inside what's real,
The three dimensional message
To make sense at the failure of words.

If all fade, let the lack of colors
Inform the dawn of my days,
Or of my senses,
Or of hope.

Through greyness I'll distinguish
Light from dark,
But I'll miss all tones
To tell me the sphericity of the world.

The world had to be strange,
Chaotic, unfair,
So you could be beautiful.
You cause all that's bad
Just by being so good.
Everything has to have an opposite
(Not by ontology, but for our comprehension).
Every sunken ship, every poor town,
Every ****** with power and an empty speech,
Remind me of the details of your face,
The unstable order required
To the exquisite combination to result in you.
For you to be possible,
A whole world of madness was created.

There is nothing to define,
What's old is old,
It's in the past,
It is no more,
It is a memory,
A phantom,
The mess after a party.

Its beautiful lies
In its absence.

Its character
Is a reflex,
A reflux,
Everything it can no longer
Be.

The new
Is everything
That remains.

It's not the light,
But the almost absence of it,
It's the improbable reflections,
The unconventional light paths,
It's the dance of imagination and odds.

The formless images
Clearer and more defined
In the measure they're abstract,
A curve and a straight line
Brought me the hammer and sickle
(What does that tell about me?),
And don't know for what reason
The other form brought me a dog.

What I see on the ceiling
Is the light of my open eyes,
My bleeding heart,
My calculist mind,
My fading memories,
All projected in a jelly
Of colors, messy patterns,
Of texture and ideas,
So maybe, through that,
I can see miles
Inside my own tiny body.

Who else has seen this trail,
Stepped in these grains,
Heard the same local noises?

There is no need for checkpoints,
Yet, they are extremely valued.
A possible third of a path,
Or almost entirely the path,
Who's to say?

Here I am today,
And nothing else is sure.
The end of a journey
Is not its destiny.
The end is always unexpected,
By definition,
Different from a destination.

Here I am
And it is the time
To choose where to go
Although where to reach
Is completely beyond my desires.

My own pleasure
Denies itself.
I spend my moments
Within others' needs
Inside others' heads,
Fulfilling others' desires.

I want to be me
But how can I be?
I want to discover what I'm here for
But where I am?
I want to be complete
But what do I miss?

My pleasure is not mine
Or it is my pleasure
Pleasures that are not mine?

I dream of freedom
But I have no idea
What ties me.

The pleasure
Is something to be understood,
Maybe just lived without considering,
But surely experienced.

To be self centered
Is the only path
To being something else.

I do not know the colors I cannot see,
and the frequencies I do not listen.

I do not know the ideas that does not serve as mirrors,
and the images that are not my own.

The moon remains remote without my footprint.

Everything I know, I own;
What I do not know is not mine, does not fit me

I fear the unknown because I fear what I am not:
I fear my poverty because poor I never was
I fear death because dead I have never been
I feared light before seen it for the first time

But the unknown is bricks and frames of my creation;
I only learn from things that are obscure to me.

I can only truly learn what I fear.

If "A" equals "B",
"B" equals "C",
And "C" equals "A" again,
Why do we have three names to call them?

I feel the pillow under my head
Make it even heavier.
Its plasticity
Conforming to my skull
Bending to my inert thoughts
Remind me of my own distortion.

My space is liquid
Yet my body is solid,
My intention to melt my body
Vaporized my space:
They are always out of phase.

In mismatches I keep finding other sides of me
In my dreams (I can't hardly remember them)
I am all the strength I want to be,
But to rest is a burden,
As my pillow
Always remember
My own flaccidity

The little sillinesses
Wanders and drifts away
Until you realize
The color of your shirt
Doesn't matter anymore,
The car you drive,
The ceiling above you;
Truth is not cruel, it is only cold.

The roads are different today,
But they all lead
To same is destinations,
And my obeying foot walk by them
Just to not be stuck.

Those smell that once
One could almost touch,
Delicate in all tones,
Desaturated, are only smells once again,
Distant and forgotten.

We merged so strongly
That we've wrecked in our way out,
And now I don't look for fixes anymore,
I look on functioning,
Completeness,
I look the other way
(It doesn't look bright either).

Leave it all behind
Is just another way
Of carrying the weight

I feel my head weak,
Trembling thoughts,
An imminent ache,
A taste of alcohol
Extending up to my fingers.

I don't drink for my body,
I drink to say hi,
To sign contracts,
To gain opacity,
To be rewarded.

Whenever I'm alone
Drinking isn't necessary.
There is no one watching,
Nothing to claim,
Just the silent fall off a giant tree.

I drink to be a cell,
A mimetic exercise.
An externalization.
A reduction of a self
For the sake of community.

There's nothing more extensive than being.
All sets, chances, creations,
Occupies all possibilities.

Being is not a privilege,
Existence is not unique,
It's just a mere fact
That things came to happen:
Since then, nothing else could be possible.

Hu-ray for existence,
But only through nothingness,
And subsequently denying it
Creation happens.
We owe all to the generosity of no thing.

Life is a never ending circle
(Or a one time ending)
Of breaking down and recovering
Breaking down
Recovering
Breaking down.

I am the hand that writes,
The hand that whips,
I am the commit,
The judge and the executioner.

The hand that chooses
To make or let go,
To punish or to caress,
To wave or to touch.

The hand that farm
That composes,
That plays,
That pray,
That curse.

The primary form of communication
The ultimate form of transforming.

I am the hand
Just that
And I am the whole world.

"Where" is any junction
Of two spaces,
Two parallels in the common infinite,
Finally touching,
The realization that all extremes meet themselves
Like the skin-envelopment of a body:
Everything closes in themsleves
Inside something bigger.
There is nothing analytical in it,
But two curious eyes
Dissolving what t sees
To avoid the certainties
Of this hard, impassable world.

All movement is a rearrange,
A fugue or search for balance,
But never indifferent.
There are potentials everywhere
And there is just where we get the discomfort,
That thing that puts us in movement,
That air mass that occupies
What just a moment before was my body.

All that transforms
Leaves behind
Traces of the irreversible,
The dust that no longer will be soil,
The cracks that no longer will be building,
The explosion that no longer will be bomb.

All encloses in the extremes.
The coldest cold, absolute,
Lean lightly absolute hotness,
And the dichotomy disapears,
Everything ends up in a circle
And what once took far
Can only lead to the starting point.

The farther we can go
Is the exact place we are.

There are many things
That burn
And are not fuels.

Curiosity burns
When we are in doubt,
Minds burn
With ideas that are to big for them,
Even coldness burn:
We freeze, and it burns,
When we miss
The velvet touch
In our souls.

Most of all,
Forgetfulness burns
For, more than exist,
We want to be memories.

Invade my breath
And occupy my spaces,
It's the world once built,
It's the world to remain.

Every violence is powered
By a strange amusement
That stands a hierarchy:
Soul over mind,
Mind over body,
Body over dirt.

We rise
Powerless but confident
Against the spell of the crowd,
Against the roles and the rules.

We rise to offer options.

Every word
Invokes dozen books
Hundreds of stories
And all my 940 million seconds of life
Building up to a super story
In seek of a masterpiece
To say "I did it".

There will be no masterpiece.
All words found their way
Into a dance of images
To be where they fitted the most
With sometimes unclear roles
And an improvised script
Even after exhaustive rehearsal.

What are we but fishes?
We are baits,
We bite what we are
In the quest to seize
The little life
Tied to what
Wants us bones

Distances prevail,
The spaces between us remain.
I take one more step,
One step closer to a free fall.

Solid grounds we miss
Greener fields we seek
On the other side of the abyss;
Bridges are yet to be invented.

There are more mysteries
Than chemistries,
More sand than mortar;
The life ahead is always bigger
Even if all life should perish today.

All it takes is a leap.

Oh saudade,
How I miss you...
Suddenly, you became
An index of happiness,
My measure of success,
And, yet, although all is missing,
I miss you: you failed me.

Distant meadows
Hide your shallow substance,
But I'm here, nurturing you,
And missing you,
Missing to miss.

I miss you so much
My feelings have got sick,
Faded, faded, disappeared.

Haven't I got mad;
It's just the cold weather
Remembering me
The warmth of your coldness

What are the insanities
I use to keep me sane?
Maybe a consuming job,
Or a will to keep flying,
Or saying yes,
Or a self disbelief
To be resistant
To my flaws.

I have to give away
A love, a cat, a car, an apartment,
A traveling bag, a loved shoe,
The phone signal, a guitar, a world map,
intense moments,
So I remain sane and free
To choose a prison to live in.

I shall be naked,
Eaten, chewed and spit,
Until I'm left only
The bones of being
So filters would all be broken
And things would appear
As they are:
No front, no verse;
Whole.

Beauty lies in things
We cannot comprehend,
In the missing links,
The lack of logic,
Within craziness,
And yet, it's within all of it
Curiosity is awaken,
Like a warning that,
Even though in an obscure language,
Can tell where should we look.

The lines are too straight,
Circles are too round,
But the world is not,
Abstraction is mutilation,
But reality prevails,
And it is crazy, unordered,
Unpredictable.
We either be prepared or we don't.

The same roof keeping me warm and protected
Keeps me from seeing the stars.

To hate hate is different than hate
But as far as possible to love.

That's the way with negatives:
They look like they cancel themselves
But math never found a way
Into our real lives.

There is no way to reach love
Rather than love itself.

A mattress to the floor
Bent, thin,
Something to soften
Its rough fabric
Is enough to hold
My every regret.

The sleep is heavy,
The mind is light,
Sometimes even
With reasons not to be.

There is something
Like a survivor instinct
That makes me forget
Damage, bruises,
There is a certain dementia
To keep things going on.

The mattress
Is now
About to merge
To the floor.