A perfect type of style,
One I can't run from,
Too much craziness
To be crazy,
Yet a bit of reasoning
To refuse any order.

A type of hair
That says
"I'm mine, I'm yours,
And none at the same time."
Teeth that tells me
What you've been eating,
Feet that tells where you've been,
And everything's fine.

Though your smell
Still unrecognizable,
I have my own thoughts about that.
Maybe they're wrong,
But, who cares?

You are my image,
My contours, my opera,
And nothing.
A schizophrenia,
A delusion,
Or worse,
A socially constructed ideal.

I'll fight it with every fiber
Even if it costs
The long promised happiness
Of a simple, magical and real world.

The world (I'm convinced)
Is none of those three.

All of a sudden,
Words strike
Bringing form to forms,
Images to images,
A torpid reality
Of shades, of maybes,
Of what we think.

All of a sudden
These words surprise
Into something new,
Unsaid, untouched,
Unscouted, unbelieved.

All of sudden
Words turn to maps,
To directions in the fog,
To whistles in the woods,
Magnetic fields,
Useless until discovered.

New words,
New worlds,
New sense of living,
Something new
Put into pages
To remark time,
Characters, faces,
Traces, History.

Hail to what has been
And could have been told.
Everything else
Is vanished in the maze
Of weather, memory,
Sand, dust, dirt, clay, mud, earth.

Hail to what is now,
The descendants of Ozymandias,
The remains of Tutankhamen,
The blow of Aristotle,
Nothing could be now
Without anything that has been.

We
Just happen.

Somethings wound on the surface,
Somethings go deep.
It does not depend
Only on the sharpness of the knife
But also of the strength of the body.

Sometimes we know
Words mutilate
And, deliberately,
We mutilate
For the sadism
To see the red blood running.

But we mostly want to heal
Yet many damage is made
Without the need of intention
As if we can't handle
The power of a knife
We can't drop
But refuse to master.

We keep cutting.

Every sheet of paper
Desires nothing
And continue to be
A sheet of paper
After been drawn
A fine art draw.

It does not matter
What things are
But all their history,
What they've been through.

Picasso turned into Picasso
For histories printed
Into canvas
Turned into Picasso paintings.
Not the other way around.

We are the history
We imprint the world around.
Objects are just
The touchpoint.

If I get something to hide
I'd say it would be
Nothing to embarrasses me,
Nothing others would laugh
If only they could find,
Nothing to put me
In an inferior position.

What I would hide
Is this sense of superiority
Heir of humility
Flavored with the ignorance
Of a child that did not had a chance
To put its finger in a power plug.

Every time this pops up
I end up dangerously stronger.

I woke up Wednesday
Knowing it was Tuesday,
In a desire for more Saturday,
Fitting your Monday's eyes,
With the Thursday's anxiety
For the never coming Friday
Expecting no less than a Sunday.

Stay, stay, stay,
Says the voice
That know
That the difference
Between stay and leave
Is a decision.

It is bold to fly,
To distance from feet on the ground,
Of the roots we try to create,
Of the soil we recognize,
Of the short (beautiful) horizon.

We need a lot to fly,
We need instruments,
We need pilots,
We need machines.

But we know it is beautiful,
We want to see new perspectives,
We want to go to other lands,
Other languages,
We'll see many other rivers
In an expanded horizon.

But finally we need to land.
To fly is easy; to land, not.
We count on a whole team to do so.
It's the way it happens that changes everything:
A gentle kiss on the ground
Or a disastrous impact on the ocean.
The same thousandths of seconds
But with very different futures.

And we are so used
To being landed
That we don't know how to touch the ground ourselves,
There's always a pilot,
A crew,
We forget to know how to recognize the terrain,
To wear a parachute,
To chose when to jump.

It's always risky,
But not to take it
Is to be, everytime,
Where everyone else is.

Aterrisage is terrifying.

In this story
Nothing is about life and death:
Everything is about life and life,
The life that has been seen,
That has been wanted,
That was never imagined,
And that was never possible.

Death is a solved problem:
We die.
Even suicide is to think about life.

To live is to decide.
Always.

Maybe the future
Is our maximum possibility
To build the bridges
Between what has been
And what insists to be.

It is where there is permission,
The chance in raw state,
The only place where ambiguities
Reside peacefully.

In the future I dissolve
The cuts from today
And if, from what has not yet been,
I think of what is now,
I make things differently from what I would
And life is no longer the same.

If the becoming
Is so substrate,
All that not yet exists,
But somehow arranges in-between my ideas,
Create parallel futures
Of such unreal things,
They mirror the world such as it is.

To realize what does not exist
Brings life to emptiness.
There is no "not be" -
It s extremelly unstable -
For thinking it is creating it.

The becoming is microexplosions
of the instability of the "not be"
That soon morphs into the most probable
And everything is just exactly as it could be.

Change precedes the existence.