tap my bones
tamper my temper
tempt me on Tuesday
love me on Thursday
shut my rusty trust
trap my soul

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

pendulum petals
pieces of flesh
fall off my bones
faring gravity
the closer I get
the lighter I am
my right
my left
flowery
legs
          stain
       the
    stage:
          *He loves me.
          He loves me  not.

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

cleavage
         and a pitcher
                of Sam Adams
                              adapt
                      to the trap
                           of heels
                       that clasp
                          trespass
                   this roaring
                      rapture
                 roaming
             the streets
         your
             statuesque
                 figure
                   fractured
                       your
                          allure
                             in
                              a
                             strapless
                           dress
                        giving
                     more
                 for
            less
       I pass
I guess

By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
Open, locks,
Whoever knocks!* (from Mcbeth
by William Shakespeare)

the voodoo doll
and his stuffed soul
jammed, aware
Tis time, 'tis time
pillow stuffing
creepoo muffin
may you enjoy
Tis time, 'tis time
the view of
1000 windows
so you pick one
Tis time, 'tis time
and fly away
dirt head
get the hell. (out)
*Tis time, 'tis time

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

just another poem about love

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

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

arms
attached
to  benches
aim to let go
the satellite kite
that bounces left
and right like trance music
                     a swing dances
                     on my dendrites
                     that hold on
                     to your memory

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

moving words
from one place
                 to another
                 declutter thoughts
                 hand wash the words
                 air dry the words
                 fold the words
store
the words
in room temperature
breath in let the words out

we dream that we are dreaming
    like Russian nesting dolls
         inserting ourselves
                 into darker
                  fantasies
dreaming deeper
drowsy keepers
                              recording the hidden truth:
                              everything that is possible
                                                   is real

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

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

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

branches brew blazing flowers
under the yellow-spinning sun

y o u a r e everycrowdedplace

you buff the sky
and its chunky clouds
just to make it into galactic vows
for a split second you replace every bit
of cushioned decor into a exuberant screen:
all the meteor showers
kaleidoscope sunsets
solar systems
galaxies
wiped
to project
a quasar cast
a best-thing-ever blast
a point-of-no-return voucher and
all that glitters is not gold it's your smile

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

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

i fell in love with a song
and it dragged me like a wave
where the current meets the ocean
it soaked my dress so I can digress
the wave became your love that
appeared like a ghost and like
a ghost faded through walls

It was meant to be the
most important line
of all known history
but you forgot it
screenwriter
your sheer deed
equips your script
with perpetual discretion
                                     prompting props
                                     praising speeches
                                     persuading species
                                     Prussian Blue and Russian Spirits.

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

sometimes you
just want to hold
this night morning
with your fist and
if you open your eyes
hard enough *******
eternity is yours gogetter
feel. every. bit. of euphoria
and oh that beautiful rain
bow sad ness all the
feelings in the
world are
yours
tonight
forever

and the world is yours

the halo
your arch
   drowned
  in the starch
of our mutated
              fractures
   most things break
frosty mountains melt
scattered promises flare
driving planes on icy lanes
       forecasting plastic tactics
          arguing drastic gambling
             how fast your clothes fly
                                                        my sidewalk is
                                                        the cushioned path
                                                        of things that are best
                                                         left in the past

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

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

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

you've conquered all sentiments
            you are IMPOSSIBLE
                 the time traveler
                    that kills his
                     grandfather
                     to end some
                     DINOSAURS
                        and flies
                        and coin
                     the CURE for
            spontaneous combustion
        for YOUR photogenic HEART
       captures mine as you bring me
     a w a t e r m e l o n w i t h s e e d s
   through the wormhole speed of light

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

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

i have your e y e s
with me and they
only fit in a pizza box
                                      it's hard to take them on the train
                                      it's hard to take them on the bus
                                      it's hard to take them on the railroad
to the museum to the theater to the opera
to the ***** churches and rigorous opening
parties and the extravagant police stations

                                      i cannot take your e y e s anywhere
                                      i cannot take your e y e s
                                      i cannot take you

the black cherry taste
of your huge lips
is the music
we sing
and sigh
the foggy
scene to which
our bodies bounce
is the melody of I don't
know how many degrees
Fahrenheit my spiral sight
doesn't need to work for
the naked eye is not
more bare than
how you'll be
fast forward

i believe in repetition
i believe in disco *****
there is
a party
going on
we all clap
i celebrate
subjective realities
that give me extreme
and give me earth
let 'em eat cake

try
to
tame
the
toll
of
your
fear
for
your
throne
should
not
train
your
tears

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

speed-dating
fast-learning
falling
for
the immediacy of chaos
sometimes to feel alive
you have to be broke(n)
the beauty
the uncomfortable
mind
the wallet
skating
through
rhetorical
landscapes

a million dollar look:

a dollar purse
a smile on your face
a hole in your pocket

stop and smell
the misty roses
as you cross their path
we need liquid to have paradise
we are drops of water in the lake of life

a flock
of friends
in town
    flaunting
     futile
     fuels
any event of your life
can be put on hold
       toothbrushes
       hairdryers
       emptying
       drawers
you
know
   you
     are
       not
        alone
you
got
movies
and cookies
toothbrushes
and the toilette
doesn't get flushed

you sm0ke cigarettes
as she s m e a r s
your b r a i n
with that sweet talk
and that sleek walk
rep0rt to the r0bbery
of her b0iling brawl
embrace the rapture
of her r0asted b0nes

if you smoke on my table
clean up your hologram
the wildest wind
couldn't erase your
instruction manual

the oxygen mask retired
looking
        for a
           treasure
             at the end
           of your
       grayscale
your cajitas are the countdown;
*en boca cerrada no entran moscas

my body is a carton of eggs
with nothing but cracked shells
like the other side of the moon
       the other side of a balloon
       the other side of a loop
       we see in nightmares
       like soil drought
       and traction
       like antartica's
       desert
       and Jupiter's
       europa
       my skin is cracked tampered and
       forgotten like the book of enoch
                                     no love
                                     no bones
                                     no pores
       like lidless eyes that lay red and
       dry like the surface of mars
                                     no flesh
                                     no air
                                     no sin

my bounce house deflates on me
all pillows explode
into
airbags
where are you
i wanna say things
like i kicked *** today
and oh my day was ****
where the hell are you today
where on earth is everyone
monster
under my bed
leave the microwave
beep stuff hair in my drain
spill coffee on my white shirt
hang spider webs on my ceiling
do something where are you talk to me

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

I can write all night
at every place you like
as an attempt to revive
the corpse you left behind
in hopes to bring you back
as I look for comfort I lounge
on love seats oh how soft is every
chaise I sit on all I touch is made out
of dust bunnies my timeline is a string
of people saying I'll be back

carrying a beating soul
rubbing a breaking sun
dragging a rubber bone
roaming a carry on
screaming a song
healing my soul
freezing my
thoughts

Sensually dancing toward
that room in which one
is encouraged to enter

                 I fall in the dead end
                 of your mouth
                 my Venus
                 my Trap

the past is the bad tattoo
that reads NO REGERTS
the train
that leaves
when you run
down the STAIRS
the label that FEDEX
left on your DOORSTEPS
a spectacular moment for THIRDS
someone spilled their life on aisle SIX
if you are responsible please clean it UP
                                                and have a nice day

a voracious wrath vanishes
varnishes stick to all wounds
in the womb we vent the room

repel the wasps that wait on
the inner side of the window
for the light to toast them

the bulb is a wastebasket
with light stuck in it

...and her ink-saliva printed bills of higher denomination
   and she exhaled with the same urgency as that of a subs-
   titute grim reaper that forgot who or why he had to ****...