There is a certain kind
Of laziness, of apathy,
Which contaminates
Bones, muscles, tissues,
Rendering physics useless,
Psychology whines,
Neurology cries,
A vacuum installs
And curiosity fades,
Our countenance betrays
The deadly inertia carried
For reasons yet to be understand,
Held against what we are unaware,
And the very passage of time,
Countless seconds stinging
Where we sense the passing hours.

Maybe it's the death of a supermassive star,
Maybe just a lost bug carried by the wind,
Maybe there is no reasonable cause.
It all depends on what answer
You are trying to observe.

Late at night
Problems are up,
And in my head
A slight shade
And running thoughts
Quietly and calmly
Slow down
With the fading chords
of a Chopin piece.

Everything else
Remains the same:
Problems will still be up
In the morning,
Restless and relentless.
But those chords,
That song,
Fluid,
Will, every night,
Carry me in that
Zero gravity machine.

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

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.

Words
Are what I miss the most
When I try
to get to you

I cannot exist
For it is impossible
That existence itself happens
Without me.

I must travel further
Than fueled only by reason.
I am consistent
In the exact measure
I'm incomplete.

Beyond the ends
Lie the limits of ourselves
For the universe
Fits in our eyes
Like a shell inside an oyster
Inside a shell.

I still am
What I should not be,
I cannot contain myself:
I'm to big for me.

To every action
There is an equal and opposite reaction.
A price is a reaction,
Value is the action.
There is always a price
Charged in money, credits and debts,
But also in heat,
In relationships,
In exhaustion,
In freedom.

We constantly negotiate
With time:
Our primarily finite asset.
Everything is at a perspective,
Charged in time.

I must learn
To reevaluate all the prices.

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.

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.

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.

If you could only see the moon
I see now,
But our eyes are opposite direction,
With our sights never to cross
One another.

I remain the same child
Forever fearing being abandoned,
Being abandoned
For fearing abandonment.

It's the water that bothers me,
Feelings of submersion,
The need of being salty to be ocean,
To overflow slowly drop by drop.

It's the water that keeps me liquid,
Turbulently running from state to state,
Mood to mood,
Tide to tide,
To be wave and current and breeze,
To dislocate within continents,
To somehow be attached to the land,
To avoid the sky to penetrate Earth,
To hold the void beneath.

It's the water, strong and weak,
Carving stone hearts through a strange dance
That make me look to the sky everyday
To expect a new kind of rain
To bring sand
Where only clouds, ice and river are known.

We are weak,
We can't handle completeness.
Time and behavior are strangers
And we try to conform them,
Configure into our limited view,
And we call it plans.

Yet, people, time, nature,
Movements, chances, impact,
All is uncontrollable.
Everything controllable
Is irrelevant:
What's the use in worrying about them?

Plans must be missing things,
Plans must contain lack of planning,
They are a learning process,
But we want them to be predictions,
The future to realize.

Plans are our incompetence
To comprehend the unexpected.
They are useful just as they
Remain unplanned.

It hasn't anything to consistency,
Neither with rigidness.
It isn't a state of hardness,
Nor a form of perennial existence.

The ground is solid, but not rigid;
A carpet is solid, despite of softness.
There's solidness in the harsh feelings of parenthood.
Solidness means being contained
Within a specific space.
Solidness means being able to,
Whenever reached critical moments,
Acquiring liquid form.
Solidness means being elastic,
But only up to a point.

Weakness is not not being solid.
Weakness is just pretend
That being solid
Is the only state possible.

Any state can happen,
As long as conditions
Allow them to be.

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

We are fragments
who do not fit in a whole world.
If we say we know,
we lie.
If we know we lie,
we are true.
If we know the truth,
we are mistaken.
In mistakes we know.

The faults reveal the existence.
What we write
exposes everything not written.
Our creations show our limitations .

My words are the boundaries
of communication,
the fragmentation of a message,
for we are unable to read the whole.

My house is the demolition
of a ****** space,
of a space unbuilt,
the containment of the wind,
the separation of light,
a splinter of a world.

Everything is happening
Causes cause effect to be cause,
endlessly.

Don't turn right.
The only option
Is to go ahead,
Or ticket awaits you.

Obey the red light,
Your life depends on it,
Kids need their parents
And parents need their kids.
Rules save lifes.

Wrong way.
You can only go
The other way around,
It's all for good traffic,
So we can arrive early,
So hours aren't wasted,
We want you to have
10 more minutes with your family.

Parking forbidden,
Keep moving,
Moving,
Rolling,
Don't stop,
Faster, but watch the
Speed limit.

It's all very clear, you'll get used to.
Everything is there
For a reason.
More signs, better traffic,
Better people,
Happier people,
Guided
By the ultimate sign:
Smile, you're been filmed.

To not believe in the current order
Is not the same as to reject all of it.

There is order in going threshed ways,
There is an order in believing blindly,
There is order in flying with parachutes.
Above all, there is ridiculous order in
Being a two paw animal all the time.

To hope for the new is to assume defeat
In whatever is going on now, but surely
It is better to be see clearly the filth
Than to imagine rainbows with eyes closed
Whenever our nose can tell which one is closer.

I cannot think
For I have to survive,
My intelligence has been stolen
By a short-term struggle.

My sleep is conscious,
Tirelessly aware,
Tiredness dominates though.

Seize what night can bring
For tomorrow is a matter of moments.

This may be where this story ends.

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.

The challenge of finding a self center
Lead me into my extremities:
Left to right,
Up to bottom,
All the wingspan of my own being.

As I went left
I eventually caught myself
In the right extreme
With the same perplexity
Of Cook and Magellan.

Whenever an extreme was reached
A gravity, or magnetic force
Would push me
Into a lower place,
Almost indistinguishable,
Somewhat gray,
Somewhat colorful,
But always comfortable.

Every extreme
Are as close to each other
As they are distant to the center.

We touch, and suddenly,
my mouth is the whole me,
and I give everything I know I am
(what remains of me
is everything I don't know).

I found you along the way,
and I found myself, then, happy,
for the chance that gifted me,
for the sky that smiled with all that blue,
happy for the chain reaction
of a cosmic accident,
a divine lapse,
that put us together, there, in the same place,
with all that contained energy,
the spark of a thirsty bomb,
uncontrollable, devastating,
a seducing destruction
of millions megatons,
semitones, shadows and lights,
skin tones,
skin, that I felt
cover my own flesh,
to enfold all my body,
completely blind, dumb and breathless
by a kiss,
as if the grass itself,
that bore our weight,
was our feet
burying and entangling themselves,
feeding just of ground, air, water,
glutting myself of everything I'm not,
like if the world, at that moment,
started to shrink and became small,
a little bouncing (untamed) ball
that we suddenly could reason
all its mysteries and secrets.

Then the air occupies the space between our lips
and everything returns to normal.

Waking up
From a dream
Inside a dream
Where we
Were enough
We were
We're different
We're weary,
We've seen it
We'd beat it.

We'll do exactly
All of it,
But I'll do and you'll do.

I'll say it plainly,
No hidden messages,
No flourishing,
No adornments:
I'll miss us.

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 can't say what I really want.
Well, I can, but I don't want
To say what I want
Although I want to.

I can't say I love you.
I want (to say),
I do (love you),
Somehow it's a mistake...
I'm just missing the senses,
Misreading the meanings,
Forgetting words of nostalgia,
A fugitive mind, in-betweens

What I really want
Is to undo the structures,
Go back to when there weren't
Words or concepts,
Just time to time
Pure living.
Presence.
Present.

But it's just past.
I'll always miss it.

If you travel to the world of nothing
You will find amazing findings:
The world is flat, but three dimensional;
People are well intended, but petty;
Animals are amoral, but judgmental;
Feelings are just feelings, but also thoughts.

In the world of nothing
Matters don't matter,
Ambiguity is certain, but unsure.
There's a weight in choosing
That cannot be felt in any absence.

But nothing could never happen
Unless everything is imagined.
The world floats in a space
Sustained by anything we can think of.

Nothing can be nothing,
Nevertheless, they are.

Deep inside I had this hope
That I could bear us, and
The unforgiven would be just a bad memory.

I had this hope
That yesterday's problems wouldn't resist
The cruel test of time.

I had this hope
That our new found love
Was born differently.

I had this hope
That I would resist strongly,
That I would fight for my sanity,
And warm, calm waters
Would occupy all the trenches.

Hope is just hope,
With no past, present or future.
Hope is a wanderer,
A promiser,
A guest never to arrive,
A cure for other's disease,
An oasis one mile away of him who died of thirsty,
The imminent accident of which we'll all die someday,
And all we can do is live to wait.

We live for concepts
From which we take nothing in the end.

Life is the exhaustive experience of absurd:
More than this is inconceivable;
Less, it's just insulting.

In my bones
and in my skin,
I can feel it,
all of it.

My heart pumps
warm blood
just to meet the freezing
of the coldness inside,
and the coldness outside,
the ice of every look,
the crystal of every saying,
the burning cold
of a perhaps deserved indifference.

Suddenly, the phantom of your touch
heat all of me in my endless fury
to repeat all my mistakes once more.

Not without pain
We'll build and destroy systems
An inert and abject belief
To make us more than humans:
A supreme species
With no control or self conscious,
Of individual moaning,
Of lonely joys,
Of the eternal dichotomy between
Be one or be all.

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.

Deepness is more valued than shallowness:
There is glory in death,
Oil costs more than water,
Soul over body,
Roots over branches,
Icebergs are ****,
Gold over green,
Complexity over flatness,
Volumes over areas.

The strange thing is
All our senses and connections
To the outer world
Can only connect to surfaces.
The ninety percent underground
Will always be
The unsolved mysteries.

Grasp the air
With long nails,
Beat rhythmically into the woods,
Finger after finger,
To count time.

Crawl or fall the abyss,
Feel the bleeding of exhaustion
But continue, for the alternative
Is to surrender.

Nails makes us stronger,
Frighten others,
Keep us scaling.

Grab all you can
For the uncertain future.
Don't worry about the load,
About the order,
About the destiny.
It's all about
The dirt carried under your nails.

Today's gray heaven
hides a bright sky
above the clouds.

Heaven, the Earth's limit,
seems closer today,
in a homogeneous,
tedious gray.

Distant buildings,
somewhat tall buildings,
seem like a printed landscape,
almost as gray
as the gray cloudy sky.

I can hear fading airplane sounds
hidden in the vast grayness,
and I can hear pigeons
competing against cars,
singing joyfully,
ignoring (so I imagine)
the lack of color above all.

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes.
Still not warm,
still not bright,
but there are definitely
light beams bravely leaking
through deep, depressing clouds.

After all, what's the price
Of lefting everyone behind,
Of missing our thoughts the way,
Of leaving pieces through the road
Until every bit is new,
Unrecognizable components of ourselves?

Seeking the ease of easy words,
Meaningless combinations
Just to make a misery of a sense,
Only to legitimate my own power over me.

Leaving this body is a matter of survival,
The road around the sugar cane field
That can lead in only two ways:
Backwards and forwards.
The decision is simple:

Be free in my maze or
Escape to be trapped within binary choices.

Where's the point that I'll break?
I'll break and I'll have no other option.
What a prison to have options,
What a limiting concept is freedom.

There's only freedom
In not thinking absolutely,
There's only love
In self interest in someone else's interests,
There's power
When there's nothing left to do.

Lack of choice
Exempts guilt and responsibility,
But cannot exempt life.
There's always life within choice.

We've taken the long road,
Curvy road,
Crossing mountains,
Infinite tunnels
Built ages ago.

Somewhere we diverged
Your tail lamps fading
In the rearview mirror
And in my life,
In the long miles
Between any start
And any destination.

We're protected
From rain and snow,
But forever accompanied
By loneliness
Of a quiet road,
Long, long road,
Where night are inevitably
Longer than days
In the drama
Of lost paths,
Bifurcations,
Clovers,
In infinite combinations,
Always leading
In the unexpected
Feelings buried
In the soft sands
Of the surrounding deserts

There's something when we isolate
That enlarges us, that completes us
Without the need of others.

There's something inside us
Claiming to be left to the moths,
To lose our forms and our substance
Into the nothingness of air, distance and trail.

There's something shouting
"Not me" whenever possible
Just to pass, to live in passenger seat,
To go and to come without bothering.

There's an urge to be just a self,
Nothing more, maybe to untouch
The universe, time and space wisely,
To be a bubble of own rules.

It's all illusions.
There is no world inside.
There's just us. Everything else's outside.

There are stories
Beyond any physics,
Unreachable by current logic,
And the sustaining intuition
Can no longer make sense
Of a world lacking reality
Or lacking separability.

Lines are only imagined
And imagination is now protagonist.
They now came true.
The ideal turned to reality
At the same time
We lost the capacity
To create the sublime:
Our dreams came true
And now we can't dream no more.

To be or not to be?
Where to be?
Why to be?
All of it matter,
But they are not required
To answer the most important question:
How to be?

We would be so naive
If we are satisfied
With descriptions,
Functions of time and space.
We answer what things are
Or we answer nothing,
And the world is still a huge meaningless mystery.

I am.
That is important,
But what I will be
Needs so much more.

Our stories are to be told
Even in things that tell nothing about us

We reflect ourselves
In everything we create
Hoping then to be mirrors.
Turns out, they're just
Aging photographs,
Revealing the time past,
Where we've grown,
Where we're stuck,
A passage from the past,
Untouchable,
But reachable,
Invisible,
But never invincible,
Just the remains
That we, inevitably,
Will lose.

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 extirpate the existence from me,
Not into the void of inexistence,
But to now, where existence does not fit.

I could be afraid
To enter houses of unknown people,
To speak foreign languages within natives,
To sell my own thoughts to insurance
(And live afraid as a consequence),
But I won't, as far as I'm concerned.

I want more than light, I want matter,
I want more than hope, I want happening,
I want more than space, I want hardness,
I want more than voice, I want touch.

Everything requires me, myself, my mind,
To be within, inside, adjacent,
To be where I can be found,
To give the keys to the catacombs
I insistently try to hide.

The awkwardness of today
Is not how much we value
The ridicule,
But our capacity
To continue valuing it
Despite its growing abundance.

I can't understand jazz
But I keep listening,
Intrigued by it's messy,
Searching inexistent patterns.

I can't reproduce it,
Even if I were to play perfectly.
I feel my molecules swinging
To match the vibrating air,
But the precision of the notes
Is not enough:
The tones in transition
Keep the song going.

My innocence
Keeps me closer
To things I know about.
Jazz is more in me
Than any style.

I know us.
I remember us.
There were times when us
Were us.
Other times, only persons,
Happening in between surrounding vacuums.

Now it is a story,
Beautiful and intricate,
It is the entropic causality
Of our common estrangement.

Water and air lightly touch,
But they are immense around themselves,
Just as we are, as our stories,
As our own liberties.

Through the air we say,
But touching can only happen
Within the boundaries
Of how far can we reach.

We reached so far,
But so little we got
That only space could touch.

The magic is to be special
Even when every fortress has fallen.

When I left town,
I meant to come back,
To turn my village
Into a great city,
Make it flourish,
But I'm not there,
And I ain't coming back.

My old street is my name,
My neighborhood, my family name,
Its lake is my busy calm place,
Its morals, my constant fight.

A town always wanting,
Waiting to be,
The capital of county,
The capital of the state,
The capital of hearts,
Trapped with a small
Megalomaniac obsession,
A misplace inside a panic room,
The dream of a solved traffic congestion,
A myth of buildings and skyscrapers,
A proud town,
Proud of all citizens that left,
Proud of all you can find in there
That could never be found three,
Proud of a growth measured by irrelevant mesures.

A great town,
Hidden in a beautiful valley,
In the middle of no paths,
More peculiar each day,
With decaying ideas
In the exact proportion
Of a growing population.

There is many of it in me,
But there's nothing there about me.

I'm happening in between
The real and the nothingness,
Divided and undecided,
Waiting for the ultimate prove
Of a sure choice.

I'm caught between
The wheels and the leather,
Cotton and glycerin,
Fruits and caramels,
Meats and grains,
Wind and coal,
But existing in all of them at once.

There's pain, passion and desire
In the seek of gold,
In pursuit of patents,
In achieving medals.

There's a unique relaxation
In the void of beings,
In dematerializing that inner voice,
In decharacterizing oneself,
But still self recognizing simultaneously,
An identity stored in the clouds
Like Theseus' ship.

The subtle finding
Is to realize that the actually real stuff
Are the ones that can't be touched;
Everything in matter
Are nothingness, perceived only
Through the illusion
Of the senses.