When the geometry of  sombra
seems to have a life of its own on the underworld walls, above the surface arrogance takes shape believing that it is more intelligent than, I, who can see the train coming. Uncertainty won’t bother impotence resting on earth’s shoulders, and Sleeping Giant can wait forever for the lost sailor.
What a blessing!

There were two good friends,
The flower-woman and the fisher-woman,
One was selling flowers at the market, and the other one was selling fish.

On the weekend the fisher-woman  invited the flower-woman for a sleep over.
After talking for a long time they were tired and want to bed.
The fisher-woman  fall asleep immediately, as she was sleeping in her home.
The flowers-woman could not fall asleep.
She was tossing because of the smell of fish in the house.

She woke up, and got a few flowers from her basket, and put them on the table.
The flowers smell helped her easily fall asleep.
Suddenly,
The fisher-woman got up wondering from where this awful
smell was coming.
“ I can’t tolerate flowers smell. “
She removed the flowers from the table.
The fish smell again helped her fall asleep.

the onion in father's hands didn't have time to cry,
with his fist punched it on the corner of the table, spread salt and
ate it with sheep's cheese,
(like the builders of the pyramids, my dad was paid in onions)

the onion in my mother's hands was sweet and made many leaves,
spring after spring she shared it throughout the village,
people were wondering: how does not bring tears,


every time I have an onion in my hand I think,
to clean it with my hands,
cut it with a knife, or
punch it with a fist,

the onion in my hands
is waiting

april,
full pink moon,
it snowed yesterday, and still today
many
many clouds of light, like a

statue

i wonder if the light remembers itself,
if the moon knows when it's called  (by nasa) the supermoon  or the pale moon,
when it brings frost, rain,
*******,
ovulation
if it takes any credits,

last week at the corner of my house the storm ripped apart half a tree,
does it remember where?
does it remember the putrefied roots, dry branches blown by the wind,
does it remember the one that still fights,

i look out the window,

the cat jumps from branch to branch, plays with the blue jays,
who memorizes who? initially, it seems, that the cat is provoking the birds,
squatting on a thicker branch awaits the next move,
i have my moments too,
i understand, the truth never barks,
and does not caress you like a kind mother
it also doesn't  kiss you where you want to be kissed

for thousands of years,

it is rumored that many know it, but
the raw reality is that truth is autistic,
the gifted child
genuinely likes the same food, the same road, the same coat,  color,
stops at the red pass when is green, it simply knows what is right,
like a donkey clings to the same people,
roars at the same gate,

it is the only one equipped with the kick under the belt,
it  hits the careless on the scruff,
the rest on the forehead, in the belly,
it hits with a  fist,  feet,  or sledgehammer, like a rumble of  thunder,  a bomb,
it bites by the ear, by the nose,
it's mike tyson,  the greatest puncher of all time,

despite it all

net theater, all kinds of reinvented creatures, weird characters talking about the belt,
they want to abort it and  flutter it on the (right) cheek of jeofrrey de peyrac,
more than likely, to cover the cracks in the palace of culture (the experts
explaining: it is an adaptation response to fresh rehabilitation),

no joke

the truth has nothing to do with adaptation, those in  trend, the saviors of the world,
a boomerang doesn't know about smart people, bullies, or others…

a boomerang is a boomerang

try to make a bow from a boomerang, or a parachute
and you'll have princess diana's headache on her  wedding day; migraine sweet migraine
cancer, brain tumors,
titmouse constipation, broken teeth on TV,
viol in viol, - in,

i don't want to write about what I have  in mind,
i know nothing (tell yourself: big deal), and
i don't want to wash my brain with your memorized truth

*
reality is much harsher than a halloween decorated pumpkin,
when memory mocks you
every morning you wake up smaller and smaller
a shrimp,
stretching back and forth like tasteless chewing gum
promising
hailstones solidified between tangible and inaccessible
free play up and down the column
abandoned (does not mean we are free from mistakes, and responsibilities)
whether we happen or not, all that is not only ours
here or there we are bubble-to-bubble
missing
the freedom with respect to destiny
...
but how about the parrot?
when the truth happens like the full moon, live
în pink flesh
once a month
ones a year,
per century,
once in the millennium
...

sunrise promised to wait for us
the dawn did not rise over the village,
in the eyes of the muses
the dawn promised to wait for us

muses are not like poets,
not even like the sun
that
burns its rays on the cascades moved by lazy waves,

- the dawn did not rise over the village,
the down promised to wait for us,
swore to the muses,
swore that the water would comb at the rising sun
  smoothly
it will burn in his eyes like the star of the night while planting a garden
where
the muses smolder all year round like flowers, or
like coal extracted from the hearts of poets,

after burning my eyes
and her words turned me around
we remained silent like two fried eggs in the sun

I

Once upon a time, on a Monday morning sun,
There was a blue wind in the west Cucabaga Country,
Blowing on a forest road, where the White Horse Girl
And the Blue Wind Boy met holding space for unfurling
Mysteries, everything happening as it has to happen,

II

The White Horse Girl and the Blue Wind Boy lived
In the same neighborhood, he told her all about the winds
and how parallel roads meet on Elephant Hill,
The early morning wind remembered their faces, and
The mailbox waited for the time of delivery.

III

It was a cold day on a mud road, the birds still cheering,
The blue morning wind was the king of the forest,
Running on lovers' hearts like on white horses,
Each holding a song, afraid of turning it on
And listening to it loud, dancing and singing it loud,
So afraid. Instead,
The blue greedy wind took over their feelings.
Wearing winter gloves in September.
Blowing away shoulder stiffness,
Ready to fight with the invisible enemy,
It gave him airs of mystery in disguise.
He loved the early morning wind, and
The White Horse Girl loved him.

IV

Hair blown by the wind, ready to share his song, he arrived,
The weak heart sent him back to his home, and prayed: 'Please,
God, please, help him change his mind and not return.
Look how much madness it is in the air, and the leaves are falling,
This is not a nice day for a romantic walk, not even for a talk,
The strong wind has no mercy, it will break my heart.'
That was the first voice, while the second voice took the lead:
' Oh, God give him the strength not to change his mind,
Take everything and everyone out of his way,
Make his steps fast and light, like feathers flying into the sky,
Bring him back on the white horse. He is my Blue Wind Boy.
It can be windy, and it can rain hard.
There won't be another day.'

V
The dog barked. The back door opened
His spirit walked through The Blue Wind. He returned
With a heroic look on his face, light steps.
My friendly voice whispered: ' He is very brave.
He is your hero ' While the scolding one:
'There isn't any place left for thinking.
You are weak and lost if you let his eyes meet yours.
No one can save you. Don't rely on your dog. '

I felt warm waves moving through my legs,
Imploring 'lift up your gaze from the ground, '
When cold waves shrink my head pushing down
The fighting in my heart, I feel leaning into someone,
A wall or a tree. Forest trees kept looking at me,
  Moving their branches: 'come, darling, come, ...'
VI

It was cold, and wet, on that forest road
We walked side by side searching carefully
For words that haven't been invented.
The wind was the king playing with my skirt,
Holding it tight with both hands wrapped on my legs,
Urging to stay steel and not listen to what I feel;
Love in disguise lures my heart.
I wished that I had another two pairs of arms,
Holding the blouse when the dramatic wind
Pulled out the button. I kept him busy with talking,
About how beautiful it was living in the forest.

VII

Spirits were getting high only walking side by side,
Up, the elephant hill was waiting to swallow our desire.
I showed him a sacred space, where the sun touched my face
When I prayed every day. Up elephant hill,
Lovers were coming in secret at night and burned the fire of love.
He looked at the remnant ashes ' some lovers met here last night '
While I too looked at the aches and answered, ' anything could be possible.'

On the right side, wild ducks started to gossip,
In the little pond frogs quaking, letting us know
They were watching every step and listening to every sound,
' It is a windy day today, and it's cold.'
My voice softened while moving deeper inside,
Hiding behind a sober look. Oh, God,
Help me take down the elation.

VIII

I never was surrendered by so much readiness.
The singing of the birds was sharper than the blue wind,
The leaves danced and cheered in the air,
Everyone was ready for the spectacle to begin,
It was intimidating; leaves had eyes,
Flowers started talking with each other,
My feelings were greedy like squirrels eating now
And storing for later, for the winter, and any bad weather;
My heart was hungry like a wolf, wishful devouring the prey.

I could feel he was looking at me,
I could hear his long face saying,
'I dream of playing with your hair.'
The wind was getting mad, and fearless.
Like a forest fighter, he was ready to protect the garden
And destroy the misbehaving eyes caressing my hair.
He pulled those gloves in.

IX

Shortly the rain came putting on us a calm shy breeze,
I was prepared for a rainy day, he was ready for the winter snow,
I feel a boothole, on the left side,
'Boothole' was the word I learned from him,
I was happy when he asked, ' is your foot wet.' So naive,
With every careful step, we take time, holding on to every breath
Soon the sun smiled again at the end of the road,
No trees standing on our way, me and him,
With no words waiting on the lips,
With sudden humility soft grass flattened on the ground,
When the earth was running high, and hearts flew into the clouds,
He implored: 'Look into my eyes
The thunderlight started.

X

A warm rain walked us back to the house.

Faster steps took us down the hill. When passing by the little pond,
Daffodils opened their eyes, and the ducks quacked in disappointment:
'What a waste of time.'
We entered the bright forest meadow.
'Come, I'll show you where ducks live, swim, make love,
And quack all day long' The little pond was waiting for us.
Naive delight. Like a thief, he wrapped his arms around me,
Stealing a kiss.
I run away. He comes. Tears come. It was cold.
The blue wind grows furious and strong.
He pulled out his gloves.  We hold hands. Tears come
In our eyes. Tears fall on his burned hand. Hands touch.
Our hands kissed in the rain.
Our hands kissed in the rain, and the rain kissed back our hands.

(Suddenly I think: 'He can't burn twice. I don't want to burn.
I don't want to burn.')  
'I am cold. Let's go inside the house. I'll make a tea.'
I felt for mundane noise and no more mystery.

XI

We walked quietly, and soon entered the house that was waiting
for the two lost kids returning from 'where the white horses come from
and where the blue winds begin.' The home was friendly and warm,
embracing the blue morning wind, the song, and the kiss of the two lost kids …

'You have a beautifully clean house. Yes, It seems beautiful'
Answering fast while holding tight on stainless steel ***.
He leaned on the kitchen wood, crossing his arms.
Ready for an adult conversation. I busy myself as if I can't find the sugar.
I think. What if I poured too much water.  I found the honey.
It felt as if boiling two cups of water took forever.

We sat at the table. Two cups of tea and the white tablecloth looking at me.
Looking at him.Taking turns listening to words coming slow.
Carefully not disturbing the shinning floor, me crossing my feet
Under my seat, sitting together, and talking to each other he said:
'That's where the blue winds begin,
It would take years and years to ride them on the blue waters'
She listened and said: ' I See! The white horses also come from far away.
So far away, farther than the blue waters and the blue sky.'

XII

Everything happened as it had to happen,
The early morning wind believed and remembered,
Where the White Horse Girl and the Blue Wind Boy met
and lived as neighbours, he told her all about the early morning wind,
and the night sky wind, and the wind of the dusk between,
the wind that asked him questions and told him to wait.

The house walls interrupted the conversation: 'It is late,
He has to go home' He looked into my eyes and asked:
'Runaway with me.' 'It is late, you have to go'
Our heavy bodies stand up slowly from the table
And the cups implored me to go. I opened the back door.
The strong wind was taking him. The door closed fast.
I burst into tears of despair. I cried and hugged my knees.
I know this morning has no return.

XIII

I received so many messages the day before
The night before, and the morning before,
Even more, signs of delusion appearing at every corner:
The spirits were hiding in the forest,
Sunshine dance and every smiling flower,
Witnessing our first meeting on the blue loonies lake,
Where loons perpetuate their offspring every new spring.
'We were not the only one darling,
Was this nature's complot or spirits desire
For loons to meet and dance in the blue wind fire
And sing their song of calling love on the blue waters,
Sun shining so bright fooling us into delude,
Despair running on white horses? '

XIV

I run outside. I saw his back and heavy walk.
'I want to go with him where the blue winds begin,
and where the white horses come from.' The mailbox moves
And gives me the letter, I read: ' To My sweetheart,
You have to wait now for the night sky blue wind, and the blue wind in the dusk, when it is neither night nor day. They will understand.
Keep your heart for us while I am gone.

With love the Blue Wind Boy

XV

It's been a while since the White Horse Girl has been waiting for the Night Sky Blue Wind and The Blue Wind in the Dusk to come, …
It came last night.
...

(Va Continue)

our dying kiss
two babies were born
with flying wings

Sunday morning, I am running at the farm market,
For buying three pounds of organic enlightenment,
Glutes tight, chest stiff,
Every single step is marked on the asphalt,
A little bird pooped on my forehead,
Hoaxed by this joke I stepped on some dog ****,
That got me mad even more, while an old lady asked me
to carry her over the pit. I mimic, wait
“I will give you help after, I am in a hurry,
I want to buy three pounds of organic enlightenment”
I keep running, every Sunday morning at the farm market.

on that day
she performed the dance
in a mortal silence

lustful intensity,

the unusual
exit with the back
was hiding her face
without any wave of hope,
the eyes
where
seeking consolation,
her spine
became alive
like a tempting serpent,
arms
were wavy wings
a cry for help,
legs outstretched
like two cello strings
rising
under the guidance
of internal forces,

the pirouettes
faked
with a great talent
the lack of courage,
as a sacrifice brought to the air
she kept doing
dozens of rotations
as if
the body
was anointed
with the dark air,

then,

it fell into its arms
like a wet coat,

every movement
spoke
again and again
"I love you
and
I hate you",

sun rays
died
in a light
that bowed obediently
under  the public eyes
riveted
like a forest
of frozen trees,
waiting for
what's next

You be the sea
I’ll be the stone
Waiting and waiting
On your seashore
To eternity and beyond
Miracles happen
Miracles happen

Miracles always Happen!

You be the wave
I’ll be your wind
Caring and caring
Your waves in the sand
To eternity and beyond
Miracles happen
Miracles happen

Miracles always Happen!

You be the splash
I’ll be the waiting
You be the kiss
I’ll be the fading
Miracles happen
Miracles happen

To eternity and beyond
Miracles always Happen!

You be the tears
I’ll be your salt
You be ’seabed
I’ll be your heaven
Miracles happen
Miracles happen

To eternity and beyond
Miracles always Happen!

You be the darkness
I’ll be your ridge
Flying abyss
Meeting sunlight
To eternity and beyond
Miracles happen
Miracles happen

Miracles always Happen!

candlelights

destined lighthouse keepers 

shining light in my eyes

my eyes lighten up your eyes

our eyes illuminated hearts

two candlelights in the far distance

destined lighthouse keepers

I climb trees at night
with my hands,
eyes,
my soul,
with my lips,
and I pick the green leaves one by one,
one by one,
my hands become so small,
or, suddenly
they grow so big,
and so long
that I can't see them,
or I see them too well,
or, I feel them picking the little green leaves
and putting them in a sac that is attached to my body,
my shoulders,
chest,
breath,
holding tight
breathing
until I climb soft branches,
or I reach trees with big heavy branches,
where I stop and eat jam,
sweet jam
made from little leaves,
like a baby, I cover my head with leaves,
I dance in green leaves,
and  I jump in yellow leaves that ones were green leaves,
I am an old man that holds a green leaf în between his tongue and thees and sings from a Greenleaf,

I climb trees at night
as if I am swimming up in the sun rays,
I see little leaves with the little names written on them,

I climb trees at night
and it is in that night I wake up with no pain,
No tears, No regrets, No resentments,
In that night I wake up with a smile on my face,
like a newborn that climbs trees at night,

I never stopped climbing trees at night,
but last night I was climbing on Everest,

Waves
swing your wings
in the rhymes
of a longing song.

Water’s mirror
splashes you with
silvery kisses
when your wings
become a vessel 
in the wind.

Lean                                                             ­       
Delicate                                                 ­                                                     
“ne plus ultra”                                      
Cooked slow                              
Gastronomically Intelligent        
Unassuming                                              
Gentle ­                                   
Docile
Fashionable                                  
“ne plus ultra”                                          
Ethical         ­                                         
Ecological ...    
...voices rumbling through refined-dining,

Excuse Moi, Mr.Gluttony

Since when is Meat Ethical?
If meat became so Ethical,
Then,
How Ethical You are?

Sheathing your hypocrisy                
and luck of humanity                                
with pompous words,                      
style and fancy clothes,
while you tingling your gustative papillae
with  “le goût friand”, étiquette,
capris and mannerism.
                                                    
You                                                            ­    

Don’t **** the rabbit! so                                                    
the rabbit can **** you in no time, “pooka”
          
Don’t tell                                                  
No one pre-empt you,                            
when asking for healing.

how little by little, you climbed higher towards the sun, leaving me on the ground
year after year, i admired your dexterity, your mountaineer character
until one day the black grapes ripened and i wanted to be like you
only you went higher and higher and my eyes got greener and greener

for each seed growing in a strong tree,
half a million other seeds will bite the dust,
except, to taste the dust they must believe  in the power of usefulness,

- unable to think that they will never germinate
they let themselves be carried away by exotic dreams:
dreaming of being nibbled by sparrows, washed by rain,
smelled, chewed by squirrels, beaten by hot-cold winds,
swaying in foamy waves,
touched by a second chance,
than
rotten in the mud under a tree,  be it a strong tree, who cares,
in other words, about a vigorous tree when you are a survival  arch,
canopy
arched up to the white canvases.

it's unfair to hate the morning
- it's unfair to hate,
because
neither the new nor the old
after burning the night
this day does not return in vain,
this day is a good day to be: a leaf
scribbled by the blue of the sky,
green sprawling on the ground, the sea
turned upside down (steam hanging from the sky
mornings), - today i woke up
with all colors of mine caressing  the faint frost on the top of the grass,
dressing up for the winter, wood and smoke rodents,
- to lighten up  the agate eye
i did not  forget the summer flowers either,
colored dust and water
"holi diwali", smiles in clay lanterns, lost kiss in rangoli
- ah, darling,
do not forget,
this day is a good day to be your favorite color,  like
the color of the sky,  of the sun,  earth, or grass ...

Luna!
Una tu!
Divina creatura!

Asculta, Luna! Asculta!
Only you can hear my soul!

Una tu,
Angel de la Guarda,
Te auguro la Luna!
Te ador Luna suava!

Credema, Luna! Credema!
Only you can see my soul!

Eu sunt,
Umbra ta terestra,
Lumina azurie vivanta,

Eterna principessa in the dark!
Luna, angelic guardian!

On the other side of the village, there lived an old woman.
Every day, she walked barefoot on a country dusty road,
passing by our neighborhood.

In the summer, we played all day long in the dust,
We, curious children, asked:
- Why do you walk barefoot when every villager wears sandals?

She didn’t answer, she didn’t speak.

We, waggish kids, threw at her feet thorny branches.

One day my mother heard us giggling in front of the gate,
as we planned an attempt to hide some stones in the dust,
and cover it well, make it unnoticed, wondering if she can hit her feet,
bleed and scream from pain, and scorn us all ...

“ Why do you do these children?
Don’t you have any respect for old people?

You better ask her  those words of healing, only she knows in this village!”

Big curiosity, and fearful eyes, looked at each other.

The next day, all children in the neighborhood were waiting for the barefoot “witch”  

It rained for one week!
When it stopped raining,
She walked barefoot again.
She walked towards me.

Silence dropped down from the sky,
and silence rose up from the ground,
and trees stopped moving their branches,
the leaves watched her touch my forehead.
My heart stopped beating.


She touched my forehead and after whispering to herself,

“ White little bird, fly in the sky, fly back to the ground,
touch the hard rocks,
White little bird, swim in your mother’s milk,
breathe fire in your wings,
breathe fire in your wings,
fly again into the blue sky, and again return on the ground”
~
I never learned those words she whispered to herself, but
I have repeated them every day since then.
~

although
we have eyes
and
it is said
"the eyes make the mind",
in this life
we don't really see no one,

absorbed by ourselves
we notice the others
only then
when their weaknesses catch our eyes,

vanity,
fear, - is a cloudy glass
through which we look at those around us,

rarely,
here and there
two people
undress in the fire of love
burning the blurry layers,

- in the light of the fire
empty hearts can see
the nakedness of the newborn.

i'm tied to you like to a pyre of wood,
another time, all i wanted was to be courted, begged,
but there's no time, darling
there is no time,
i need you in the kingdom of the night with all your weapons,
i  will make you a king over the waters of the desert,
only those who haven't died of thirst don't know what water is,
to feel your boldness
blaze
look how i tremble like a lost leaf in the wind,
gather me in your branches like the flowers of spring,
slip your soft hands under the nightgown,
touch my ear with your whisper
let the  lost kiss revive ones again, unhide the  eye of the sea,
with your warm lips spread the butterfly's wings,
do remember me forever, quench your thirst between white hips,
go deep like a sword,
let the whole earth moan with us on the lips of a man, of a woman
as serpents let us burn, and  the whole earth moan with us,
go deep, darling,
and smooth
like
a sword

at the first encounter, i thought, that he stole my mother’s tablecloth,
and called it Great while she turned the flour into bread,

after, i thought, what if they were lovers, and shared the same tablecloth
while my father was sweating in his fields, and she was sipping wine from her grapes
when he wrote songs of despair, as they could not have each other,

i shake away my childish thoughts and doubt even more:
- what if they were traders,

trading the tigers, the bread,
the tyrants, the grim teeth,
the wine fields and hard eyes,
the lamb, the onions,
the hunger and the thirst,
the hours of eating the strawberries
and the blossoms on the great tablecloth.

oh, i am childish,
jealous,
curious, and can not stop the thought of stolen tablecloths:
- what if when sad and lonely he put a spell on my mother?
and used her as a tablecloth for those who never loved, or cried,
and those who never turned the flour into bread.

the dawn rises over the forest,
the dawn promised to wait for us
in the eyes of the eagle the drums smile
and dance
eagles jump up, take turns around the lake,
one round, the second  round ... fourth,
the drums hit the sky,
feathers fall off,
smoothly
are falling, and
are kissing the grass, and
are kissing the earth
when the eagles come down and down
with the beak  are catching the fish
from below waters
the thundering sounds swear the waterfall to be combed by the sun
when drummers smolder all year round
like the star of the night,
smolder like coal extracted from the hearts of ojibwe people

i will see you, my love
soon
i will see you in a windless country, in a thoughtless world,
with swords, we”ll cut off all roads in the air, from the earth
with our eyes, we”ll dress them up  in feathers of rio abre-alas,
open wings
one day soon, in the valley on the farm
seduced by the dry edge of the grass
crushed under the earth furrow we”ll forget about ourselves,
we”ll fall like a snow belt in the winter, slow, slow,
lazy to get lost in goosebumps, yellow,
create and raw, soon
the sun will call us to a world where love is truly blind
and deaf,
and mute,
and putrefied like an old woman,
older than stone,  birds, air
water
red angels, maybe one day soon
soon
our love will be easy,
so eeeeeeeasy
as easy as blue cheese mold on the tongue,
like a blues that is digging our thirst at night
like a lip gloss broken with a pointed nose,
warm, soft *******, sweet steam resting on the needles of time
caressed by two strands asleep in the stillness of white *******,
milk carved in palm lines,
hungry orphans,
beggars built in the breath of your chest, we will die
we will die, one day soon
and, you”ll come again with your forehead up, your swaying walk,
oh, your swaying walk, no eyes, no air
it will be easy to bite your lips
touch your hard beard
in a distant world where there are no storms
no thoughts
one day soon, one day
maybe

i am thinking of you, until when.

when. not seeing you.

i stretch out my hands (like a blind man)
stepping on sounds -
pieces of glass underfoot

keeping you pierced in my heels. until

when. i can't hear you.

i soften your steps with my lips

when. i don't touch you.

i don't touch yourtouch.  

until

i cry

it is a shadow

of the tree
dark lighting
at the zenith of the day, tasting
the sweat on man”s forehead

the child of the sun
it is a shadow

of grass
opaque existence
angle of light
in the calmness of the earth

the child of the sun
it is a shadow, silently
following the man
to the water spring
in the valley of springs,

the mother sun
quenches its thirst
with the tears of the earth,

the child of the sun
it is a shadow

easiness
the traveling light
thaws time
- from sunset
to the east
late borders we are
watered by rain with its silence,
- two halves of a stone rounding their edges in the sun,
two forgotten lips in the lull between two *******

Don’t be afraid of what you don’t know,
You are too strong to know everything
Too strong,
Can you hear me, too strong,

Do not be afraid of the crowds,
They are too small for you,
Petty muggers,
Hear. how they make noises like  starved  mosquitoes,

Do not be intimidated by knives, when
Your eyes are like gillet match 3,
Listen to your own steps cutting their own steps
Cutting. the dead. Dead. Corners. of the streets.

carved in stone

you can't read it

- you feel it

you just feel it

the universe
it is
a superb creation
perfect
elegance
majestic

while
in its random reality
one thing is certain:
- it is the worst construction
constructed
ever, who believes
doesn't know-
many constants
of arbitrary coupling
mass ratios
families
and families, and families of useless particles
& dark matter, - chewing gum on a stick

gross fact

the universe exists

pregnant abyss
established chain
a fire that breathes equations
while the truth is looking for its head and tail

certainly

by wandering the mind
hallucinating
it cannot be canceled

- the crime of thoughts
it is not its death

castaway

we use words to stay on the surface

beneath  each word
we find the emptiness of the sea, comforting
when we reach the Mundus point, at will
the blood flows like a waterfall as if has no past and no future,
then maybe
maybe
in a wildly literary language confronted/confused with a word
or two:  gentlemen, how do you feel about being scalped?
- thank you, we feel extremely well, gentlemen,  as you know
at the tip of the tongue, we find everything we are looking for (the needle,... the cannon...)
and
a samurai's sword is nothing but his soul, - baked dough  în empty eggs,
a clot in the veins,
vessels of..., vessels for...

shipwrecked

we use words to stay on the surface like a healing bruise
healing by itself

i just found out today that on poemhunter.com
on the 26th of January, The Child of The Sun was selected as the  POEM OF THE DAY:
and this makes me very very happy  🙂

The Child of The Sun

it is a shadow,

of the tree
dark lighting
at the zenith of the day, tasting
the sweat on the man's forehead

the child of the sun
it is a shadow

of grass
opaque existence
angle of light
in the calmness of the earth

the child of the sun
it is a shadow

silently
following the man, to the water spring
in the valley of springs

the mother sun
quenches its thirst
with the tears of the earth

the child of the sun
it is a shadow

DESIRE:  ~ is Movement

The desire to change has to be greater than the desire to remain the same.

I desire ~ I move ~ change starts with movement ~ change happens ~ I move~ I desire ~ I move ~ change starts with movement ~ change happens ~ I move ~ I desire ~ ~ ~

~A flower has a greater desire for blooming then remaining in the bud.
~ A baby has a greater desire to grow than staying little.

Nature always has a greater desire for restoration and renaissance, then decay ...
~
Honour your Nature every day,
Find out what you want! (for real)
~
Move, Move, Move,  ...

Change doesn’t happen without movement!

in your absence,
i am a shore that  has eyes only for waves and annoying rocks,
  how for thousands of years are grinding one another,
the sand
  an infant with many stony relatives babysitting when it plays with the water,
runs from shore into the sea, comes out  like gold,
in your absence touches my feet, i built  castles in the sand,
the sand never builds castles for itself, it only sticks to my feet,  hands,
wants to go home with me,
last night i was turning from side to side,
twisting,
the bed was full of sand,

the fruit of their few
joyful days together

you will never know where you forget it
or lose it,
the night is an overstuffed  suitcase
that you never know when it will open wild,

i saw you walking, even more
i touched you a little with my elbow
everywhere
on the platform, it opened like the mouth of a boa constrictor,
i see myself running with a red ribbon in my hand,
for the first time, we are face to face
overwhelmed by our presence
we become dwarfs: ”poems, poems,… how much lipothymia,
these poems really did it to us, it brought us into exasperation ”- you bite your chapped lips,
i look at your fingers, searching  to hold a cigarette between your lips
no words
naive, i repeat "stay, stay", the train is coming
it's time to live, you lift your suitcase (tightly tied)
i see a rabbit with wet, bright eyes running,

it's autumn, the leaves are like red ***** hanging in the trees,
i clench my teeth, my hands, my eyes tighten, again
determined i want to squeeze all the pain (i would make a fat must),
i want to slap my face,
so, i wake up
to remember how in school i had to learn the names of every war battle,
to learn the name of each river, bridge,
the name of each soldier,
if i knew them, i would be given a red pioneer tie
(which needed to be ironed and kept close to my bed)
at night
stuffed like an old suitcase
the train leaves,
as if through the fog I see you on the platform: - do you want a cigarette,
- thank you, i don't smoke.

(the smoke rolls like a boa constrictor)

last night I slept with the moon in bed,
I didn't close the window like before: -
come in when you want, I told her,
and she came in,

morning arrived,
I woke up, full
the moon
sat on the left side of the bed, with the heart in hands,
the sun rose on the right

The Provocation on Highway 401/ By Maria Mitea

There will always be a provocation, temptation, elation
Someone inviting you for a fresh breath to take in, and out
when you, the day-to-day maker are driving, loving, or maybe make money
with a hammer in your hand hitting on a red iron.

Hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen
on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe,
not, or again maybe free love, wanderer, adventurer, or vagabond
with a hoarse voice, will invite you "Going Out West", and change your name.

I am in, even though I don't know what I mean, Please, before I start to write let me park at WalsMart, and my apology if you feel ignored or bored.
I have an important encounter on Wikihead with Tom Waist, intrigued if he meant anatomy or a cut of meat from the leg of a lamb, or maybe he liked to be, or feel in between for the rest that moved in thin blood and sotto voices.

I pulled in, and find out that Tom Waist was born after the ussr famine,
agogy to see what lives in his guts, what a bad habit, "girl! go back and read what's the challenge about." I hold in from searching his words and thoughts that he played on a yellow paper, and think " Hm, he was born after the famine, his music and poetry must've been concocted from hunger starving for life itself."

I click one more time wikihead, and I see that indeed he did all he could do on earth and not only, but he also dug underbelly, living in between starving his audience to tears with his hoarse voice and appetite for art. Then I need him more. I can feel how he invites us all for artistic addiction, and I need him more, on a smartphone, I am digging his music and stumble into the "House where nobody lives", bursting into tears.

There will always be a provocation, temptation, elation
Someone inviting you for a fresh breath to take in, and out
when you day-to-day maker drive, love, or maybe make money
with a hammer hitting on a red iron,

Hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen
on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe,
not, or again maybe free love, wanderer, adventurer, or vagabond
with hoarseness in his voice, will invite you "Going Out West",
and change your name.

I read again and again, and one more time I listen to a spot fyi " Going Out West", and ask if this was the "voodoo ... , I am gonna make myself available to you" without losing your composure you have your "voodoo" means that brought me back in tears in the "House where nobody lives",

Ones, hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe, not, or again maybe free love, wanderers, adventurers, or vagabonds with hoarse voices will invite you "Going Out West", and change your name.

as I go up and down the stairs,
the rain stops abruptly as if struck by lightning,
the breath of spring deflowers my lungs,
I see two eyes bathing in the outpouring of sounds,
the chirping of birds snatches my mind,
pulls it on a string,
- the thought
sits on the lilac leaves,

I cling to everything that gets in my way,
I feel like then
when I was drowning in the pond at the far end of the village
hanging from a willow branch
at the bottom of the water, I hear your voice,
you were whispering:
"breathe, breathe, move your hands
move your legs,
it will come, it will come "

with the tightness of my heart, I take my head out of the water,
expire water,
for the rest of my life, I stay away from thirst,

at times

I prefer to be a sauerkraut
or dilute like a mercaptan
which passes through its own volume of air,
raising its value to an acceptable limit,

I search,
I give myself time,

I end up in a world of smells,
lichen, moss scent the forest
without losing patience
or weight,
lazy molecules (arouse my envy),
- little magicians on stones,
faithful masters of the forest boulders,
a carpet of green moss
I will be,
without blood in the veins,
without flowers,

today I will be
a moss that absorbs all the moisture from the rain
until I get over my own invisibility.

Watercolor Cat, Watercolor Cat,
You are the most wonderful Watercolor Cat I have ever could dream about,
And I wonder, my friend Watercolor Cat, and admire you perplexed and mesmerized,
Tell me, how you know and how you do that you stand up straight and mastered this dignifying posture,
Like a masterpiece,
And these yellow eyes, like sunflowers, while sitting on a such big stone, on a such long road
When you are not a red cat or white, and not even lost, but
Just an easy touch of lilacs that comes with the sunrise and leaves at sunset on the shores of volga,
My friend, Watercolor Cat, when I see you standing up like this with all your pride, sharp years, and flying tail,
You suddenly are the most blue-yellow cat in the sky, like you swallowed the sun with your wondering eyes.
Why do you wonder my dear friend, Watercolor Cat, why do you wonder and look like you are waiting for something wonderful to happen.

Monako ( meat)
Aebi (water)
Bala ( honey)
Manaketa (corn porridge)
Hunting at night
Zebra
Baboons

A rat is still food,

We don't eat hyenas (they can eat people)

We fear Lions,  
Black mamba ( we cut their head and throw them far away)

The moon?

The full moon is not  good,
Too much light,

Look the baboons are out!!

They smile

my palm remained in your palm

simply, it was blind  luck
great luck

* before becoming literate
intellectualized
we had time,
we had time to cultivate ourselves
on the taste of the stones

Halfway between past and future,
Life and death, singularity and universality,
The eye is looking through the clepsydra of time,
The Absolut,
- I am the only one twisting the strings of conflux,
The Eternal tells,
-All things from today and tomorrow already happened,
It is all in vain, don't even  bother,
There are even memories of
The worlds that haven't been born yet,

Tying to suspend time,
Why?
When the days and nights are unchanged
From the beginning of the world.

It is Friday morning,
I feel like a robot lubricating its joints
with peanut  butter and jelly cookies,
repeating its movements over again;
jumping, running and extending into
the big robotic world with the hope of
reaching out to humans.

Driving to pick up Hilda, a soul
that needs a ride to heaven,
her husband a former mafia driver, in his homeland, lost his car and driving license,
as the virus came and switched  his brain on shootings and killings he witnessed,
in his youth days, when worrying more for money than life.

I hope for no shootings today,
Friday morning, and
The sun didn’t show up in the sky,
It can be too much even for him shining every day, not an easy job warming up
earth’s feet when striving for a happy day.

It is early Friday morning,
The dog had no time for barking,
I feel like a robot that has been overused,

Waiting in the car,
I succumb to dreaming and export myself into a passed homeland life, were on Fridays evenings I laugh and wear cherries 🍒 behind my friendly years when Apollon comes with his sweet kisses.

My client arrived, she moves like a robot too ... I drive ... we reach in heaven as we start talking and crying, ...

Hilda opens like a flower to the sunset, while she is telling her life story,
and how much pain she carries in her feet and arms, cut off at every sunrise by her mother denial, shootings hit her heart,
I pray and hope for her husband to be well,
and forgiven by Gods.

Hilda’s storey wakes me up to being a human, ... between tears and pains we find our laughs, ... After we cry, laugh and feel the pain, me and Hilda we feel like two humans on Friday morning.

it was a hot burning day,
now is  raining,  and the thunder is turning the sky upside down,
while the lighting, like a God, to be seen,  and wanted, came at my window,  
touched my heart,

is not easy
to find from which spot  of the sky we are falling,
from which cloud

you don't need to be with someone at that moment

it's  intimate

too intimate

maybe

a little breeze will be all you”ll need

like a kiss on your chin

or forehead

I  would prefer calm rain

as if

someone still will want to cry for me like in the old days

like when people were dressing up in black
caring neatly folded handkerchiefs

a dream

lost in thought
chin dropped to chest
clumsily will take it out
to shed a tear

then
bent like a willow

will leave


but

if the sunrise

the sunrise will come down with me
when the birds pour forth their song
and the thick grass breathes the sleep of first lovers

or

maybe

late rains will come on their own
in the winged world will come
for the thirsty  one

~   using
our intelligence
to manipulate
people   ~