everything is inside of me. i’ve found being.
what cannot be said but only heard
what cannot be touched but only felt.

here in a vacuum of loneliness
soul streaks sky
bleeds down my legs.

the mossy moon
and running red
pounding the atmosphere

but leaving only a whisper
among the weeds on the earth
that are very, very alive

we barely can hear you
and then we lose you
and then you’re there

Are the notches of my spine
The swirling staircase
Of your home?

Did you call up my vertebrae
To hear your echo
Rain down?

Did the walls of my skin
Make you feel
Not alone?

Did you see your reflection
In the ice
Of my bowels?

Did you know
I am sick with you
And need you out
I can see you
When you're looking
In me at yourself

poor mind.
suckling your dry mouth
innocent eyes
wanting but pried.
are you the last to know
that mother is dead?
a time has come,
my condolences,
when time will not
hold its ends
and it will be
far too grand
for you to tie up or pretend.
poor mind.
are you the last to know
not even earth holds you
underneath your feet.

somehow i became a foreigner
amongst excess of imagination
and creation.


i like old things
like sunlight
ducks
mother and sadness.

bread.

lakes, lagoon, fog.

bones

warm skin
dreaming at afternoon.

somehow they return the fullness
not above or below
but vibrating in the current of things,
spirit sailing in the melancholy mist.


everything still in its right place
still, somehow
even though we're desarraigo

but no one really had a home

and home wasn't even us.
we breathed.

soft breaths rise from two shore birds
up into a wild land
and fall back into bed

it never became anything more.

outside of my window

there is a sun.

we look at each other,

finally, into each other’s eyes.

and people screaming

and a violin streaming

as long as the ghost can see

the river, in its eyes.

the wind

knows the bottom

of the stream.

so remember that

every time you look

and don’t see.

there is no truth-

why else
over
and all
would there

be
the
deepest
light?

there is no final decision-

i saw houses and people and infinite lives all happening,

i ran by to get only a glimpse and nothing more.

the stairs and escapes and balconies and living rooms propelled my heart by something it has always, but never known,

and i think that’s what they call inspiration.

yet now i know we’re coming to an end,

still can i say we are in our right place?

there’s no smiling brother by my side

no unconditional acceptance in the drivers’ seat,

so i’m here in the city,

and the beauty

that just is

is still.

yet what was more than enough

now might not be anything

and yet, drowning,

the one breath it has left it uses to fight me.

neither of us know where or why we breathe,

but there it goes.

when was mystery
put on trial?
when did
we give up our true faith
for faith in truth?
magnificent sky;
i don't care if you're my creator,
or my killer
(which you are both);
my heart wells the same,
things must fall apart
to come together.
heart, you shall see.
it will be too much,
so just enough.