"Where" is any junction
Of two spaces,
Two parallels in the common infinite,
Finally touching,
The realization that all extremes meet themselves
Like the skin-envelopment of a body:
Everything closes in themsleves
Inside something bigger.
There is nothing analytical in it,
But two curious eyes
Dissolving what t sees
To avoid the certainties
Of this hard, impassable world.

All movement is a rearrange,
A fugue or search for balance,
But never indifferent.
There are potentials everywhere
And there is just where we get the discomfort,
That thing that puts us in movement,
That air mass that occupies
What just a moment before was my body.

All that transforms
Leaves behind
Traces of the irreversible,
The dust that no longer will be soil,
The cracks that no longer will be building,
The explosion that no longer will be bomb.

All encloses in the extremes.
The coldest cold, absolute,
Lean lightly absolute hotness,
And the dichotomy disapears,
Everything ends up in a circle
And what once took far
Can only lead to the starting point.

The farther we can go
Is the exact place we are.

Beneath the skin
Lies a new layer of skin,
Hiding a third level of skin,
That conceals the ugliness
Of functioning organs.

The air is the extension of my lungs,
The grass, the extension of my feet.
This skin, in all these layers
Are made actually to cover
My own body to see the world outside.

Everything I dare to say "mine"
Are those things that lie
Beneath the skin.

There is many we do
To prive ourselves
From move freely
Within structures.

We commit to truisms
We say thoughts
Born in others' minds,
We take the easy ways
Only to be away
Of the responsibility
Of being free.

It's not that we don't want to be free.
We just don't dare to.

A mattress to the floor
Bent, thin,
Something to soften
Its rough fabric
Is enough to hold
My every regret.

The sleep is heavy,
The mind is light,
Sometimes even
With reasons not to be.

There is something
Like a survivor instinct
That makes me forget
Damage, bruises,
There is a certain dementia
To keep things going on.

The mattress
Is now
About to merge
To the floor.

Remind me
Of my lack of sleep
Of my favorite singers,
Of the irrelevance of politics,
Of tenderness,
Of despair,
Of unexpected beneath predictability,
Of purring,
Of tiny paws,
Sharpen nails over my shoulders,
Of big swinging bellies,
Of strange sounds.

They remind me
Laziness is a virtue,
A kind of resistance
To the big city pacemaker.

The cats
Look at me
With blinking yellow eyes
To remind me
To be naked of thoughts,
To forget a bath,
To bring back
The humility of allegedly
Superior intelligence.

The cats cry
For we forget
How to be comfortable
With our own loneliness
When all we had to do
Was to walk around the house
Like it was the first time.

Every discover
Is a new way
To start
Things we do
Every day.

Anyway you call it
It's a label,
Virtual, invisible,
Post real,
Post truth,
Things are things
Not the name they have.

Change the names
Our minds change,
But it is inside:
the outside remains.

There is nothing more to words
Than senseless vibrations
We use to attach things.
We live delusional states
Where we think
Verbs, nouns, prepositions,
Trying to locate
Minds into grounds,
But we forget their nature,
That they're tools,
Deceiving, necessary tools,
Simplistic, manipulative tools,
Practical, addictive tools.

Lately I've been realizing
To be truthful
The only start
Is in the the anti words space,
The reverse map of reality:
All that is known, hidden,
And all that is mystery, shown.

Otherwise the only thing to do
Would be to hope
To find a new continent
On everyday commute.

For those who won't live through it,
I ache and I grind for everything
I haven't done.

There's those whose temper
Could not be contained
By their own history,
Stripped from their truthiness,
The only result is to attack,
To shorten others' integrity.

I cry a cry of remorse
To the humanity
We fail to carry
When one of us refuses
To share its load.

This cry without tears
(Frailty contained,
Rage tamed
And sharpened thoughts)
Is not to be heard:
Only silent weapons are useful.

A surprise attack is imminent.
The sound is an enemy,
But silence will spread,
Contagious and strong,
A wave of love and warmth
To overcome shots and shouts.

When they least expect
We'll all be covered
With the blanket of compassion.

There can only be rhythm
Subject to a passing time.
Existence is against remaining,
Equilibrium is the cause of all death,
All resistance is change.

To stay when invited to leave,
To let live when shouts call merciless death,
To be space when asked only surface.

The thoughts of yore
Are no longer welcome
There is already too much past
Stick to the structures,
To the looks, the fears, the hierarchy,
The privileges and the possessions.

Steadiness itself
Is at a countdown to extinction,
The death of death
And the rise of immortality,
The new mindset
That will conquer galaxies and caves
Will emerge:
Always changing, always new,
Always self-discovery.

Everything else is vanity.

Let me accumulate doubts
Stepping carefully in swamps
(Please, don't bother the smell,
You may not be used to it).

I run from maps and fences,
The lenses of superb.
Believing any truth
Is less sure
Than fortresses in clouds.

All is there to do
Is to change;
To remain is to sink.
At the best case scenario,
A free fall to the uncertain ground.

I feel the pillow under my head
Make it even heavier.
Its plasticity
Conforming to my skull
Bending to my inert thoughts
Remind me of my own distortion.

My space is liquid
Yet my body is solid,
My intention to melt my body
Vaporized my space:
They are always out of phase.

In mismatches I keep finding other sides of me
In my dreams (I can't hardly remember them)
I am all the strength I want to be,
But to rest is a burden,
As my pillow
Always remember
My own flaccidity