Death show its ugliest face
to those who suffer across generations,
continents  and ships in the oceans;
to those who chose freely who to like,
to lay, to sleep, to live by;
to those who stood against
the ugliest face of death.

Some face it daily,
others will never know about it.
Some lie between
the ugliest face of death
and the ugliest mask of life;
some ride in gravy trains,
enjoy grapes and wines,
pulling long distance triggers
pointing at miserables.

Today, the ugly phantom of death
haunts poor, black, gay, women,
but it slowly leaks
through the cracks of well written
and yet shallow ideologies,
creating a new kind of brain police,
of modern uniformed zombies
that run castles and emperors
held by the backs of millions of Atlas
with weakening knees,
and exposed fleshes by whips
of indifference, of forgetfulness,
of inconsideration, of marginalization,
of slave ships that run on wheels,
of master captains never emancipated.

Those who never saw
the smiley face of a nurturing State,
who never saw Justice balance out
pain, misery, agony or fear,
who never saw the compassion,
the kindness or at least a look in the eye
of a compassionate and kind People,
those are the ones who see
The Ugliest Face of Death.

The returning phantom of a dictatorship
is revealed by a heinous political crime,
and Death, awaken from his sleep beauty,
rejoice for the victory of violence.

A poet once wrote
"Knowledge is a deadly sin
when no one sets the rules",
but the truer message followed the utter:
"the faith of all mankind
is in the hands of fools".

Above god, the storyteller.
Standing before a white sheet of paper,
on the edge of the creation
of characters and worlds.

He masters destinies and faiths,
reconfigure, deforms his own built up reality,
tells what to think and what to make,
even against his own will.

Escapes logic, escapes a singular mind,
fragmented into others' reason,
collecting pieces of shattered own psyche,
exposing best and worst versions of himself.

The storyteller now stands
incapable of creating
having exhausted his own experiences
and all of its variations.
Writing (living) to him is no longer worthy
for creations now rely on a vivid reality.

He sees himself on the margin of creation
living the absurd of a fast imagination
in a slow concrete world.

As he starts typing again
the images of his hands start to fade
****** up to his own imaginary world
losing his matter, contained only in his ideas
where wander is prompt, boundless and free.

He was found three days later,
missing breath and heartbeats.
Free.

Here where I stand
I see the sublime view
of these snowy mountains,
solid, titanic, beautiful, sublime,
delicately megalomaniac.

I never saw
those who were doomed
by the cold and hunger.

I never saw
the agony of those
lonely lost in its trails,
incapable of finding a way back.

I never saw
the anxiety in the faces
of soldiers of Hannibal
with their elephant armies
crossing narrow passages
on their way to death and glory.

I never saw
the little mountain houses
where thoughts slow down,
worries are left behind
and the whole future
is just 10 seconds ahead.

I never saw
the fear of ancient men
hiding in its caves,
painting to preserve memories,
with no legacy to leave
but a hunt for the next day.

From here,
I just see the shallowness
of a miraculously wonderful
view.

Sometimes there is nothing left.
We rise and we conquer with greedy battles,
we attach fertile soils and rich people,
subdue them for our purposes,
and, at times, nothing lefts.

Nothing lefts from an yore green land,
nothing lefts of invincible armies,
nothing lefts of obsolete weapons
that became incapable of protecting us,
nothing lefts to win or to lose.

We learn, we grow, we teach,
and yet, sometimes, little remains
of love,
of trust,
of loyalty,
of confidence.

We lose ourselves in the void
that surrounds our thoughts,
that hollow **** we built around us
so we don't mistake ourselves with the world,
but we are the bridges and the roads,
we are the messengers,
we are the kings and queens,
we are the workers and fighters,
we are the knights.

We ride into a void
as immense as we want it to be.

Then I saw  the world collapse.
I saw life be swallowed
by hungry geological cracks
(don't know by what chance I escaped).

I saw mountains smashed
as if they were sand castles
by wild wind gusts.

I saw matter disintegrate,
I rode in a light beam,
touched accidentally an unnoticed electron,
and I watched from inside a chain reaction.

I read the book where lies all the rules
of every relation, of every physics,
and the letters started fading,
the sudden white pages would say no more,
these pages were now endless (but white),
and by my side volcanoes started spitting ice,
my body were now bigger than Earth,
that covered my body,
that covered Earth.

And, suddenly, all that were bad
were now good,
and I was judged by the people I helped,
and was punished by good behavior,
and was calmed down by deep darkness,
and what I did wrong freed me,
the cold burnt me,
the beauty hurt my eyes,
and thrash would raise me to sublime,
and when I jumped of the edge,
I felt the ground further in every second,
I felt the sky braking me,
I felt life run through my stopped heart,
and everything say goodbye in a deaf beat
produced by light vainly flouncing to avoid its end.

In the end, only I remained,
and nothing else matters.

We touch, and suddenly,
my mouth is the whole me,
and I give everything I know I am
(what remains of me
is everything I don't know).

I found you along the way,
and I found myself, then, happy,
for the chance that gifted me,
for the sky that smiled with all that blue,
happy for the chain reaction
of a cosmic accident,
a divine lapse,
that put us together, there, in the same place,
with all that contained energy,
the spark of a thirsty bomb,
uncontrollable, devastating,
a seducing destruction
of millions megatons,
semitones, shadows and lights,
skin tones,
skin, that I felt
cover my own flesh,
to enfold all my body,
completely blind, dumb and breathless
by a kiss,
as if the grass itself,
that bore our weight,
was our feet
burying and entangling themselves,
feeding just of ground, air, water,
glutting myself of everything I'm not,
like if the world, at that moment,
started to shrink and became small,
a little bouncing (untamed) ball
that we suddenly could reason
all its mysteries and secrets.

Then the air occupies the space between our lips
and everything returns to normal.

Questions hit me hard.
      Will I be successful?
            My roads lead where?
                  Why did I choose to be me?

Questions do hit me hard,
they hit me in forms I can't even feel,
in 5th or 6th dimensions.

Questions are an insult,
Doubts are heresy,
Doubts are immortal,
truths are fragile,
Truths are lack of intelligence,
but still I seek them relentlessly.

I'm broke to search things I do not believe:
to look for oceans inside a desert,
to look for laws and axioms in chaos,
to look for stories never to be told,
to seek and seek answers
that brings reasonable meaning to the world,
to **** absurds,
and to birth coherence.

I took things absolutely,
I believed unquestionably in nature's laws,
I believed in authorities,
I legitimated aesthetics,
I thought I learned,
I talked and spread words not mine,
I walked in firm soils
(but never knew their plasticity underneath me),
I assured,
I was,
I am

I.

Words
Are what I miss the most
When I try
to get to you

I resist the touch of your skin,
for your heart no longer touches mine.
I resist walking your streets
for my eyes cannot meet yours.
I resist your ideas,
for mine have grown.

The resistance is of my soul
that have seen other souls,
that cannot be mirrored in just one soul,
that cannot be filled by it,
that is fragmented in millions of souls,
millions of pieces, of faces,
of desires, of movements, of thoughts.

Every act is a resistance:
it resists everything except the act.
Like the air,
I expand until walls resist me,
and then I find the cracks and holes,
to meet the open air
where I can expand indefinitely.

I resist you, but I resist more
the idea of you.
Of what you mean to me.
I resist giving myself to you
for it is what my every cell wants,
but I'm afraid I could not
be a whole self again.

What would you do
with this meaningful part of me?

As I sit here writing
my heart beats like a hammer,
squeezing bitterly blood
to  trembling hands
busy writing words they can't understand,
guided by a brain that barely thinks now,
contained with anger and rage,
with eyes that only see red,
ears that only hear screams,
nose that smell iron and steel,
and a rough feeling in my skin,
everything flows devastating the surroundings
(but flows nevertheless),
I feel it in my toes, in my nails,
in the hair over my head,
my stomach starts digesting itself,
my gut warns me "something ain't right",
my muscles, now I remember they're somewhere,
they tighten up,
ready to fight,
read to fly.
I grow, I defy,
I occupy the space around me,
I resist,
I hurt me, I hurt others,
I scream, I lose my voice,
I write and I silence.

Then everything stops, and, suddenly,
the rapids flow into the lake.