Standing in marble awe,
contemplating this winter night,
my soul searching continues,
ruining the age of another wine.

Walk with me, in the maze park.
The north will settle,
we'll light another cigar.

Here lies, optional,
my emotional litter -
the tiredness of
walking over water
and taking over the sins.

Paying no mind to this finite state -
the gone moment of our walk
lingering on the shoulders
of my solitude.

See, these are simple equations,
and they are my solace -
the exciting unknown
divided by knowledge.

This is dawn setting on someones window,
yet to bloom, yet to rise.

when the lights go down low
my feet will shake to that sweet sunny glow.

when that good ol' jazzy jazz spurs into my thoughts
my one and only concern will be not to stop.

when I’m taking that kind of high
I swear I don’t, I don’t need to know why

but I know this:
when that feeling of bliss arrive
I'll know for sure why I'm alive.

To **** the dream
is to **** the self -
the suicide of days.

Imagine a life
where your only dream
is to dream,

where you live unaware
of something else, better.

What if the only thing that makes you wake up in a cold wintery morning is a fantasy?

What if a single dream is sustaining the weight of your entire universe?

I kiss your raw lips
and say goodbye.
The sun has yet to rise.

Let us walk in peace
with the morning star.
We should make love & die.

We shoud live life every day,
not just for some day.

Love. Love. Love.
Sweet darling, I’m here,
by the fog, by the light.

With you here,
Time lies within Time
and ages slip away into seconds,
and seconds turn into Love,
which will feed on my soul for all time.

Scattered all over the floor,
I secretly picked up pieces of your infancy.

the ring that ruled
before dawn and day,
o'er summer & an old sun
with its shafts of remebrance;

shall it remain in middle-earth
and the Dark Lord will feed upon all that is green;
shall it become fire from the mountain
and fair lairs will tremble with the wind of age.

but what is to be must be;
all we have left is what we always had:
the power of a single day that is given to us -
one road to fulfill, to live, and to love.

happiness is already happening to you
and will never happen before
or after;

happines is an option,
not a pursue.

sunset pressed against a window.
In a city so full of goodbyes
an Hello must rise
and give birth to a revolution.

In his reluctant gaze
life is given so arbitrarily,
with dreams laced in shoes untied.

someone once told me
the sweet bird of youth
would last forever

and I guess she meant it,
in a puzzled kind of way,
you see.

just like a pretty flower needs
to be watered and loved to grow,
the sweet bird of youth needs
constant spring
and warm winds
if it's meant to last... forever.

the endless run began at the age of 18.

he was sitting on the rooftop of his infancy
wondering if he was still the same -
he was.

once the sun rises, it will rise again -
only the wise know this.

Art is the most voracious muse of all.

The best often bleed to death.
Young and wild, they pay the price
to echo forever.

trapped
one night before my birth
it's 1995
the circus is in town
and so
is the lioness
and the
clowns, the
very
frightening clowns.

the room is
filled with black magic
and the walls
are painted with dawn's poetry,
the dark age.

the fall of the day
the angel again,
dream after dream,
never reaches the ground.

will he ever rise
to rule again
in the kingdom?

will I ever return
to reality?

too many gods to look for
too many whispers and calls to attend
and only one heart to seek within
and only one road to follow thru.

To stare an eclipse
from the shore;
lines begin to draw
an horizon in the mist.

I can touch the ship
with my own eyes;
I can move it to another channel
& break the couirse of the wind.

And I am myself, again -
wishing away, killing the day
waiting for dawn to light my way.

But I'm on my own, now.
Worlds will collide and windows will shatter,
and doors will open, dreams will come true.

And the stars and the moon and the world -
They will grow fond of me.

There’s no crime
in writing.

It has always been here:
the thrill of choosing the words
that benefit other words the most.

There’s a simple rule in writing
(maybe the only 1):
A thought comes out
and hopefully, when written down,
turned into strings of words,
the idea it provides may
provoke
an exciting way of
seeing the world.

Sometimes it happens.
Sometimes, it never does.

To some, words are enough.
Others need music or imagery.

I guess to each his own
and that might serve the truth
that we, each of us, are
Unique
and that in our
Differences
we get excited by our own
Differences,
which in turn provide us of our own
Uniquenesses.

But whatever:
I say what I say, at the end of the day.
And your judgement
is your own.

Still, truth be told,
no harm done
in letting it all out,
all at once.

out in the meadows.
Cars will stop as I cross
the street of dreams.

Collages of stars
that sustain
the Western Dream.

So I'm living off of tuna cans.
The metallic garbage smells of
salty water & broken shards.

I'm too old to be young,
too fragile to stay out in the night
when all I want is a good joke to laugh at
instead of a bad morning story.

I write better when I don't write
with a sense of purpose.

And I like it.
The rain outside, I open the door
& let them shelter inside.

And just like that,
with all the mercury in my blood,
I leave the door opened.

The El Dorado lies at the
gates of Eternal Bliss,

but that also lies on the other side
of morning,

and the white horizon seems so distant
and uncertain in the fog.

Ah. Well...

Some other time, maybe.
If they do stick around forever,
sooner or later, we'll get there.

Woman, you are my poetry
and my poetry is yours forever,

since that green distant summer
when all else was set to remain
untouched & preserved

by the flower of
youth.

sometimes you will find that
love and hate can be found
in the same place

and that, sometimes, the hardest thing to do
is to love and carry on.

bitterness will **** you
faster than a cigar.

a sad childhood
or a bought one,
hard school days
or sweet sixteen lies

the cigar burns all those
days away;

they never think
you can go as far as to think
that perhaps your life
is yours to live.

I write to you again, friend.
Before the end of winter,
I hope we can look back
to the sweet recollections
of another season.

I learned that
there is a place called home
which brings me great comfort
by the fireplace, where hearth is endless.

But now that
the heady days of spring are near,
I must say I'm relieved from chopping wood
and throw salt into the fires.

I'm confident that
every season is a blessing and a curse,
that the music is loud or low according to our dancing feet
and everyday is a painting of many true colors.

So it does not mean more than a second of a minute
that we are here again, at the edge of ourselves, of life.
I'm in love with all that I can love,
and making love last is all that matters to me.

I'll always near you with a soft smile and eternal grace,
because I have a light that shines around me
and you have it too, if you believe that
life is as fair as you let it be,
and the world will become yours in your own way,
because all you see is yours, for that beautiful
precise moment in space and time
where your eyes touch the light,
and that same light is born again, out of darkness.

And maybe we could forgive
the days
we wasted away from each other,
longing to be
surrounded by each other's arms.

Oh and perhaps we could
start again
all over
like a newborn cloud
in the empty blue
of a sky

Yes. I'd like that.
I'd make it possible any day,
if it was up to me.

Renewal.

Darling, the road was
full
with other places to go to,
and as you know
sometimes we lose the track of time
and the track itself
becomes another road.

I'm sick of conquering the world
with art
and my eloquent speech that never
left the paper,
where it was carefully crafted
and refined.

I need nothing. I am what I am
and I conquer a part of reality
with that that I am.

If you love me now
drop a letter.
This is the real me. Feel it.
A weird beauty of being alive
by your side.

If you love me as I am now,
you are a fool,

because the real me
is out there, somewhere,
waiting to be reinvented
by endless roads.

I only ask you
to be a part of those endless roads,
and forget the first and the last kiss,
and love me in between.

Sat down and watched the sunset.
My soul laughed. I never want
to be any other way.

Imperfections everywhere,
I still love them.

Perfection? It doesn't exist.
You have to craft it
with your imperfect ways.

It happens
when you learn to love a broken toy
or a rainy season;
It comes when
you dance to your favorite song
alone with your mind;
It triggers
kisses your lips never felt.

I sat down to watch the sunset,
knowing that that was all.
Anything else would be too much.

music is
rain
mingled with the sun.

I remember a day
when purpose could be found
with ease,

now, I strive:
what once was winter love
has touched the summers of my life
and forever molded the seasons.

poetry became too personal.
At some point,
the pain was too real when
put into words,
and that is why
I turned to music.

When making music,
your feelings are also mingled
with the notes,
and you don't feel any pain.
It's incredibly beautiful,
just like a poem,
but it doesn't hurt you.

But I can't stop to wonder
that all these things are a filler
to hold on on this ever maddening road,
until the time is right for us to meet again.

because that's where my life really shines, right?
I won't remember the filler days.
I live for the moments that we create together,
and maybe the art that I produce out of it.

But that's it,
sadly... or happily.

I know I'd trade it all -
the most beautiful poem or melody,
it doesn't mean a thing to me
when put next to what you mean to me.

poems are
translations of your soul to the real world -
the echoes of something you once felt.

strong feelings and memories
often produce the most beautiful pieces of poetry.

no wonder we write so many love letters.

god is in the people.

if you don't believe in god,
believe in the people.

chemical elevation.
we discussed myth entourage -
my father’s idea of myth is halted
when his own legacy comes into play -
she says it’s out the door,
I say it just walked out bigger,
maybe, but it’s just
good car conversation,
no greek allowed.

seek the chemical elevation.
the sky cog burning wheels
howling in the night with the meek.
Dreams become blisters,
beacons become road signs,
we skip leg days,
AI skips darwinism
and peer-reviews poems.

We’re building a boat
against the sea,
the wood from the old one has age rot
and lost its heart
to the bucolics of the captain.

The spontaneous momentums of my wild laughter
try to keep up
with all these insane rides of life.

I know me well and I lack discipline.
But that won't mean a thing tomorrow,
because I will live more, and I'll know better.

When we talked for endless hours about
the people that made us who we are,
we found shelter in each other's hopes & dreams
and promised to never fear crossroads in our journey.

We let go of that strange need for constant affection,
because where there is friendship, there is trust -
there is constant love and a place to sleep by the fire.

The music was loud, but we listened.
And I guaranteed to you that happiness could never be found
outside your kind soul.

That all that you needed was already yours
and many good people failed to see that
simple truth.

That the universe was a given
from the get-go,
and that from then on we could become anything
we ever wished upon.

That you and I and the whole world
are flowers that can choose to grow, each day.

And maybe the sun will never know our names,
but he will always be here
to guide us in our every road.

I remember the most beautiful moment of my life.
I couldn't have been 4.

Everybody was gathered in the park,
a gathering to watch the sunset
and there was music playing.

This was a single moment lost in the 90s fever:
The singer had just died,
and I think we were celebrating his poetry
or his clinginess to life.

But at the same time, nobody was talking about it.
There was just silence and the sunset -
a meaningless collection of sensations
to all but a childish mind.

I've since tried to talk to some of the people I reckon were there,
but none of them recall any of it happening.

They would have me believe
the best moment of my life
was a dream.

To me,
words are this:
the perimeter of reason.

And if you solve the puzzle
and order them correctly,
you can calculate the area
of the entire universe,

and no more will you be lost
in its complex mysteries.

when dawn arise,
I will forget who I am
and kiss the earth.

I might smile a thousand suns
and cry a thousand moons.

If it’s all the same to you,
I’d like to be alone
until our time feels right.

You were the dream I never expected to come true,
but now you are here.

I am blessed:
The dawn is rising with you.

Wouldn’t you rather
turn the winter
into summer

and make the rain stop,
and make the sun last?

The sun will last
as long as you keep
smiling towards its light.

There is no other way. Either you forget the lies you've been fed all your life or waste yourself away, to chase a fabricated truth.

Man is only free when he breaks up with those lies, when he denys everything and becomes ruler of his own reality -  but that demands sacrifice, and is harder than anything imaginable. In fact, it could well be the hardest thing you'll ever have to do in your life: to demolish an entire temple and be left with nothingness.

It means you must be able to see yourself for what you truly are and accept that your reality is what you make of it.

It also means you must be prepared to blame yourself for your failures, just as you would eagerly blame yourself for your successes.

Those who believe that man can rule another man, that lust and feasts are the answer to solitude and boredom, that love can be bought and worn like a badge for the world to see.

Those who name a king a king, who give church the greenlight to do their bidding. Those who fiercely believe that man has what it takes to wield the gods and bestow their will.

Those will say many things to contradict your reality and your dreams, because their reality and dreams are the greater good. Those that see you and me like a means to an end. But we can spot them. Their system is flawed, and that would be ok: because man is flawed. But they won't accept their own reality. They will remain untouched, in ther little shiny rooms with mirrors. Twisted until the end.

Well, it's your death in the end. That's all you should know, all you should care about. It should be enough to tell you what kind of life you need to live. Because all else is a farse.

What the other writers of past centuries have wrote is true. And the truth prevails anything. No matter how many generations pass and take the wheel, the sullen play goes on, with or without you.

Your dreams will be crushed, and your failures noticed.

But you only lose if you give a ****.