blue is the sky
bronze are the bullets
that bury our dreams
burning our blurry glory
bloated with blasphemy
blasting our moral
blaming our brains
bruising our faith

your fragrant scent
brings the fresh fumes
that intoxicate
my whole self
your love is in my blood
your love is in my bones
your love is in my vessels
your love is in the corner of my eye
and in my every corner your love
fumigates  butterflies
                    in my gut
                    in my lungs
                    in my throat
making more room
this possessive love
this persistent love
this aerosol love
fainting
  founding
    fevers
      flamboyantly

       I
          fall

put yourself in time out
see if evil enters the room

no space for light
no ear for sound
the rusty doorknob
is the metallic song
                          for Hemingway
             the Sea and the Old
ask not for whom the bells toll
for we evacuated all the islands
the metallic song
sings for thee

I install myself
into your city
that template
           where I hold
      my book
I see you the words
                               go blurry
                           every guy
                        holding
                    a book
                ever
          o
Lord someone
    save me

lift your finger
     to reach the flames
       that will fall someday
         while the glow-worms
            merge with the stars
            I will melt with my heat
           the rain you'll see tonight
          will be me melting the sky
        so you can sweet-dream
      on marshmallow-covered
    streets everytime I see you
  under the rain I close my
umbrella

The intensive care unit of a library
is straight down the hallway. The
hallway is connected to the Limited
Editions cabinet. The cabinet covers
the window partially. The Limited
Editions section is also referred as
the Limited Light cabinet.

What a writer is doing in the intensive care unit:

Squeezing ink out of a culture-tube.
Containing the pulse of a page.
Salvaging the last drops of ink.

Metaphor to explain that the pen of the writer
is running out of ink:

He needs to run out to save the blood of another
story.

Rhetoric to explain something as simple as the redundant fact that the writer is writing in a library:

Refilling the page with the cadence of life
and all the lives he’ll live through this chapter

Antithesis and paradoxes to enrich the narrative in
whose the writer runs out of ink (still):

Reflecting on the beauty of the discomfort.
To live you must accept to come to an end.

The following is just a series of allegorical ways in which
a lady justifies what by now has become voyeurism:

I agonize reading the line that ties your eyes together
in perfect symmetry

Your eyes are parallel to
the pages you are holding.

pulled\apart\and\back\together\get it

I install myself
into your city
that template
where I hold
my book
I see you
the words
go blurry

Every guy
holding a book
ever
o
Lord
someone
save me

cohesive depiction
of fictional visions
happily ready after
nearly every collision
dismantles your vision
an array of another chances
set a fort on my other nonos
you go back to your tank
I crawl back to my flag
you say good bye
I go solo

life is made out of segments
    where we enter rooms and
                    become someone else
        for we must blend into
to not scare anyone

then we emerge into the light
and we eat and drink everything
out of someone else's fridge

just another poem about love

and velvety kisses
like voracious volcanos
and weekends in Venice
and Sweden
ven amor

the omnipoem has verses
       that compose themselves
aware of its own structure

it knows its fate and writes itself
the robot that wants to be human

it goes ahead and offers himself
the hero that knows he must die

             finds a path to a castle
                 and rescues the princess
                      so the movie could end

dreaming that you are flying
while falling
off a cliff
wild
   witty
     wishes
       waiting
     for Wednesday
testing the temperature
tainting archives of how-tos
to stop analyzing how green
         a tree should sheen

a memory of you
having a memory of us
               sampling salty treats
               during that sultry spring
               screening out the wind
               that sneaked in
                    through the blinds
                          staying up all night
                             to remember what
                                   it feels like
*all night I'm gonna write poetry
all night I'm gonna write poetry
all night I'm gonna write poetry

your love is the rabbit
on a wheel coming back
to me as I try to move forward

my heart is your boomerang
may your smile be my fan

your love is the rabbit hole
I will not attempt to hold back

I show you traffic lights
so you know when to follow
but they are all yellow
the waiting period
the electric hair
you can't hide
after the rave
after the wave

I thought it
was time to stop
when. I saw the red
but it was just a stain
              after the bird
        after the car
after the window-bird
crashed the car-head

the before the after the chronicles
the number on a napkin in a trash can

the world holds its breath for us
soggy
   feeble
         drenched from the hours
         waiting out in this mist
         let the world manifest
         nothing but bliss
this liquid love
this bottomless love
I'm made out of water
when you are the sea

to have a talk with you
you measure my distance
three times as patience as fury
moving away from the origin an instant
six minus or equal feelings
Than ¾ a glass of wine
fine related-rate problems

you talk like this:

we need to implement the ability
to insert exact speech,
including additional pauses.
pitch-changes.
speed-changes.
when addressing each other.
fifteen
eighteen
twenty-one
(a+b) – (Me) = like this:
two steps back steps forward three

every alarm goes off when it's too
late
                         my veins         burst
                         my skin           crawls
I follow street lights
       they are all green
            when the lizard's    tail
                          dances
               ­             waiting for a body

life is always different
and we are always the same
               you can boo hoo
               you can ha ha
depending on the game
it's all freaking beautiful
           moon walker
           castle builder
           fire fighter
I woke up this morning
don't remember your name
          check
my shoes are shiny
          check
I'm sober
          check
how is it that you look
better every year?
I drink a lot of wine
I said

when the lights are off
I hear your skin cracking
    through the ceiling

         I wait outside
   you run out of cotton
      the glass chooses
       to be half empty

you are made out of glass
               and your skin cracks

I'm the sink-woman
landing on the floor
                      waiting

I live in the neighborhood
of your parallel universes
the window you didn't open
      the bus you missed
      that name, that tune
    you couldn't remember
                            a helicopter
                               a whistle
                                  a train
                                a trumpet
                               a horn
                             a siren
                          a tuba
I yell my vocal cords explode
           into prophetic songs
                        tomorrow
           our voice will expire
                   our memory
                            weak
                            wil­l
                            fade
                            li­ke

                                             this

chopping up a poem
in smaller pieces
like an onion
whose destiny
was to be a rehash
                     passive aggressive
                                         growling
                                           rows
smashing syntax
out of context
like the rocker
shattering his guitar

just to reflect the vitality
only found in things pulled apart

and I'm anchored
to the thought
of your touch
shoulder droughts
and the thought
of strawberries
that stay stray
if refrained
from seeing
who they want
to see
constrained
from
this
company

the sky will be black

             like black are your big eyes
            and your eyes are the stars
           and my eyes will find you
         with the strings of clouds
         you knit me pale comfort
                   (and I a color theorist
                      we laughed remember
                        that evening your table
                         if you mix all the colors
                                          you get black)
   you eject yourself
    out of a black box
          at the end of the light
               there is a soul my tunnel