In the eagerness
Of not being wrong
We miss brilliant opportunities
Of being dreadfully wrong.

Ships that miss their destinations
Are the ones that discover continents.

I'll let myself
Be again and again
A fluid mistake,
Sink to find Atlantis,
Space out to conquer stars,
Dream of being Napoleon
(In a recurring Waterloo),
I'll scream for the sake of nonsense,
And shut when everything is out of place.

A mistake, no more than
A mistake.

At least, I'll be in movement.

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.

Anyway you call it
It's a label,
Virtual, invisible,
Post real,
Post truth,
Things are things
Not the name they have.

Change the names
Our minds change,
But it is inside:
the outside remains.

There is nothing more to words
Than senseless vibrations
We use to attach things.
We live delusional states
Where we think
Verbs, nouns, prepositions,
Trying to locate
Minds into grounds,
But we forget their nature,
That they're tools,
Deceiving, necessary tools,
Simplistic, manipulative tools,
Practical, addictive tools.

Lately I've been realizing
To be truthful
The only start
Is in the the anti words space,
The reverse map of reality:
All that is known, hidden,
And all that is mystery, shown.

Otherwise the only thing to do
Would be to hope
To find a new continent
On everyday commute.

If we fear the forest man
For we fear the forest in us
And we give so we can
Take it back,
Why change it?

We might fear for we take it back
And we give for we fear inner forests?

Adaptation is all we need.

Futures should be always distant,
Unthinkable, untouchable,
Something to be seen
As a turbid figure,
Refracted, reflected, deflected.

The approaching future
Is always a troubled one,
For excitement is not future,
It happens in the present.

To think of the future
Is always a form of fear,
Is denying the passage of time,
Is the control of uncontrollable.

The only place it could never be
Is in the present.

The incompleteness is the reason for life.
To be complete is to be inert,
And to be inert is to not exist.

The need is the origin of every movement,
The dissatisfaction is the hurricane,
Food with no soul
To eat up steadiness.

It is no wonder
That to the condemned
Movements are restricted
In a premature
And with no redemption death

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.

Negligence is my way
To be excused
For not having the right inspiration,
A sabotage
To bear a failure.

I should stand
Against a more primitive error
Rather than a sophisticated one:
The error of not bringing life to ideas
Instead of the error of a work done.

For more trying and less freezing.

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.

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.

Into the night
There's a different mood,
A different escape,
Something in our eyes
Hold all the magic.

Light blocks,
Keeps us apart
For the world is to big when bright,
And to small, with everything so close
When darkness and cold arrive.
It's in the night
We become interesting,
We let productivity aside
To be more content, authentic.

That's when we no longer
Rely on images
Our imagination
- Ironically -
Is free.

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.

Wake up in the cold,
A hot shower will warm you.
Black coffee on a cup
Something to eat before leaving.

Such a normal day,
Such a normal living,
Such regular experiences,
But it's a new day and I know it.

The big lesson today
Is not to learn how to recover from a disaster,
Or how to live after a catastrophe,
Or how to keep on the happy moments.

Take a look on the left,
What's on your side?
Is there a special light beam
And an unusual position of some furniture?
Have you noticed the real color
Of your living room,
Of your hair,
Of your floor?

In such regular days
Living is granted,
Mediocrity is given (not in a bad way) -
It's just life on top of normality.
What's left for such days
Are the little pleasures,
The small tones of changes
From one day to another
Showing us through little,
almost imperceivable, gifts,
Of the grandiosity
Hidden within tenuous pieces of averages.

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.

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

We strive for numbers
To seek productivity,
Followers, approval,
But most of the time,
They come unexpected.

To think in things we see
Is to see less;
Numbers are as distracting
As distant thoughts
In things we could reach
If whatever "ifs" happened.
Feelings must be whole,
Untamed,
For the sake of whatever we have
Rather than feelings.

Numbers are lack of confidence.

Every sheet of paper
Desires nothing
And continue to be
A sheet of paper
After been drawn
A fine art draw.

It does not matter
What things are
But all their history,
What they've been through.

Picasso turned into Picasso
For histories printed
Into canvas
Turned into Picasso paintings.
Not the other way around.

We are the history
We imprint the world around.
Objects are just
The touchpoint.

Nothing produces more
Than obligation,
Nothing produces poorer
Than obligation.

I feel my world moving
I feel obligated to keep moving
But that can only come from
My own need to keep moving.

The problem with circles
Is that they never have a begin or an end,
Yet we inadvertently keep looking for them
In a naive effort to delegate
Vain motivations.

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.

Obvious things are not stamped,
They are hidden beneath the carpets,
They are shout in between words
(But never represented by them),
Seemingly obvious things are misleading.

It was not an option
To be what I became,
It is a matter of time, context,
Life, family, town, skin,
Gender, straightness, history.

To assume I had an option
Is the same as saying
A fish chooses water,
A rock refuses breathing,
A river runs from the mountain.

The laws are there,
The options are vain,
Free will is bought, but never sold.
There is just enough liberty
So we can't effusively discard it.

There is always an upper level of rules,
From society to biology to physics to emptiness.
No system can be self sufficient.

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 mistake what does me good
With myself.
I can only be one
In the presence of others
To bound where I fit.

I am dangerously propitious
To incompleteness
Due to the lack of world, of rain,
Of wasted shoe soles,
Of hoarse voice,
Of watching a complete turn of the sun,
Of sincere philosophies,
Of anarchist desires,
Of arrogant discoveries,
And of humble advices.

But even the incompleteness
Composes me.
The absences are what define character.

There is no point in waiting,
In expecting the savior,
In hoping for the best,
In claiming and claiming.

The profane History got so nostalgic
With the programmed amnesia
Regardless of goodness or badness
Of the times ever lived.

All we've been left
Is a shallow interest
To match anything
Of what we already are.

There is no place else to go
Rather than where we already are.
The only option, then, is to fight.

For any practical purposes
My body contains everything I own.
I do not own my food
Or my oxygen:
I steal them
From the land and the air,
For everything to be transformed
Into waste.

Nevertheless
There is an outer part,
Unreasonable,
Waiting for inconsistencies
To install itself
In the cracks of personality,
In the voids of indecision,
This part, insubmissive,
Remains unattached,
A slave of the lack of rules,
Traveling faster than light,
Unseen until a careful watch
Freezes its amorphous form.

There are complements of ourselves
On every surface touched,
Outer parts of who we are,
Of electrons shared,
Of not imagined interactions,
Rendering responsibility obsolete
Due to our limited capacity
To be affected
By the smallness
We are all made of.

From difference I learned the normality,
From heterogeneity I discovered space for all,
From diversity I reached farther than I could.

Yet, we continue to seek unity instead of union.

Everything in reverse,
Everything that's not me,
The source of frightening,
The place absorbing my daily death
Until death is my only existence.

Today I'm not outside,
I'm just things within a skin,
A placeholder of DNA,
In the limits of logic, knowledge and
Some sort of physics.

The medium of all encounters,
The existence of existences,
Producer of consequences,
Determiner of behaviors,
Limiter of freewill,
A cat over my belly.

A former of images for my eyes,
Flavoring for my tongue,
Stimuli for the whole me:
That's the outside inside.

The hardness to make me hard;
The world so I could not be alone;
The time whenever I have a choice to make.
The decisions not taken,
The spaces not invaded.

Outside is the living place of reality,
We're just so inside it
Our greatness get lost
That certainty that all is just the same,
Different proportions, different orientations.
Different recipes for the same ingredients.

The outside
Is nothing but another point of view
From the inside.

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.

I leave behind
the matter that carried me on,
I vanish in the air
like the smoke of an almost off cigarette.

The lightness becomes heavy,
like a stuck anchor
of a ship that must sail.

To retain life in my hands
is to die little by little,
die of steadiness,
die of lack of excesses,
die of a not exhausted life.

Re-write my own story
is to **** who I have been,
undo the trips I have done,
swallow old laughters,
live backwards;
what I am and what I did
could only lead me where I am now.

I expect a great past ahead of me.

There is this only way
I know to keep me off track.
To imbalance processes and structures,
To make tremble foundations,
To fly wingless even if heavier than air.

Often I seek other tracks
In the same grid,
In the same territory,
Same landmarks to guide me by.
But it's not as disturbing,
Different questions arise,
And, although it is an entangled web,
Every string pulls oddly.

It's the path, this only path
I can ride on it in the dark,
      [I've been hit sometimes, but it's OK]
I even forget it's sinuosity,
New buildings often change its face,
And the only way to recognize it
Is my weakened knees,
My shivering skin,
For I can feel the world falling apart.

This only way, only road, only path:
words, words, words.

We know from the world
Only what is interceded by our senses.
We are transparent to a whole metaphysics,
Collecting fragments of a reality
Extrapolating missing links.

It is terrible to know so little about the world,
But, thinking of it, it is much worse
To know that much of what we know
Actually isn't;
They're just loose, untied nodes.

What's left for the guilty
Besides a life long self awareness
Of a lesson that costs more
Than what is leaned?

Maybe it's not the balance
Or piece of mind
That matters,
Maybe it's us, just us,
Our strength
To survive
A lonely guilty journey,
A new type of immortality,
The perpetual absurd
Flaming from what it produces:
A lack of force that ultimately produces
The strongest one.

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.

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.

I saw him today,
All the way from Korea,
Gray hair, kind aspect,
Whose appearance would miss
The precision in his hands.

Once in a while
His foot would hit the floor
So loud the piano got smaller.
But he could not help it
(It was clear in his movements).

Rhythm took over,
He got possessed:
It was not him anymore.
The space between the keys would bend
So he would reach anywhere he needed.
A precise clock would tick perfectly, inaudible.
Air would cease to resist the speed of his movements.
Notes and tunes would now be an integer part of him,
Physiology would only happen to keep music alive,
He would be able to predict the future
As long as the song goes on.

At the end, tired (the piano),
A gentle gesture towards our culture
To make me feel once again:
Greatness and kindness are much better together.

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

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.

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.

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

If I say nothing
Would it still be a poem?

The absence of words
Is the greatest triumph
Of a poet
With so much to say.

My poems are about me,
About the world I created,
About the world that ceases because of me,
About the poverty of my belongings
And the richness of expectations.

That's why I write:
To put the blanks between the bricks,
To keep the sky at sight
Despite every ceiling,
To make of the bitter taste of despair
A pleasant journey.

Poetry is the slow death
Through immortality,
To unattach from life,
Making me less alive,
But eternal.

I love from dying bit by bit
For it is the closest to me I'll ever be,
The maximum to get from life;
The world is a world of ends,
Our wills reminds us of that,
As the sun or the constant now.

Poetry is to exercise the intensity through calm,
The transformation through the steady,
The moment through time,
To vanish every weight through the supreme weight.

Poetry is the victory
Of ink over men,
Of the possible over the real.

Round, around, surround,
Rounded, surroundings,
Tangent, tangled, tango,
Dance, dense, tense,
Intense, interior, international,
Nation, notation, notion,
Purpose, purple rose,
Thyme, lime, time,
Evolve, involve, revolve,
Round, around, surround.

Again, gain, grain.
Rain.
Revolve.
Start. Smart.

Pointless, less.
Point.

Make.
Your.
Point.
Revolve, recycle.
To the origin.
Begin.
Up.
To.
The.
End.
And.
Over.

I am sorry to say it
But it is necessary to be honest:
I am sick of my politeness.
I don't mean to offend,
I don't mean to be harsh.
But I'm not sorry for everything.
I can't say no more "I'm fine"
To every "how are you?".
Maybe I'm not fine,
Maybe nobody's fine.

I want to be told
When things are wrong,
I want to be criticized
When I do a ****** writing.
I want to learn how to deal with it.

I don't care if it hurts,
Give me truth,
Give me sincerity,
Give me crude information.

I need no more
Politeness as my own shield.
The world is raw.

Positively I crave a flag
Into where I want to be.
There is an itchy feeling
Urging from my gut
Saying in a strange language:
Claim this space,
Earn it, possess it,
Be it, live it, know it.

As I stand
I see the river flowing
Dividing territories,
Undecided, freely riding
Down the valley,
Carrying those
(often myself)
Rootless and unintended
To wherever gravity demands.

To stay is to be positive,
To be positioned,
It is to give name,
To draw a map
To be available
When anyone
Get trapped into
The vortex of wandering.

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.

How I got here?
I don't remember.
Where should I go?
I don't know.
I know I am here and that's enough.

My world is mine,
Nobody else's.
Only I see what I see,
But I also know
That my view
Is one among many.

I am not less,
I am not more,
I am the exact measure
Of what I should be,
Grateful
For everyone that,
By my side,
Compose an unique me.

Orders are paths already crossed.
Chaos is lack of understanding.
What we sense is the ultimate reality.
What we know is our deceiving mind
Cheating ourselves into presumption.

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.

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.

Does it matter more
How intense I give myself
Into creating quality,
Content or just a process?

There is a fragment of unpredictable behavior
Where all of this components
Feed themselves
And we don't know
Where it begins,
Where it stops.

The only thing to do
Is trust whatever process
To evolve into a result.

Quality follows production.