is the world real?

clambering the wall, this inner turmoil.
a sensuous solitaire
of sorts
my 10th beer
reading 2 poems
in the total, stark blackness:
receiving me
like a fresh fruit's glaze,
the tumultuous hands of Ocampo Street.
half-mad,
half-believing

there are already so many writers.
there are so many Lang Leavs,
a choir of Pablo Nerudas,
a cacophony of Paolo Coelhos,
(never have i met
     Geminos
  or Yusons
      Arcellanas
Joaquins
     de Ungrias
Sawis — always the realer form
    if not imagined only experienced
       through dumb senses still?)

always their inner sense
     of self conjuring
   others giving back the same image
like a prayer's way through lignin cross
     thumbing are the fingers
small in rumination

   so many of them here
and there is only less of me
   less of my voice
   less of my laughter
   less of my caprices
   less of my whims
   (more of my drunkenness
    trying to feign sobriety standing
    at the edge of the fringe,
     more of my poems here
     and there yet nobody
     grasping anything at all)
   i go home
   chasing the pattern of this
     cosmic solitaire.