At a governmental or another fancy door
Asked again who I am to call,
For my name, affiliation through and fro,
Who am I worth enough to stand at all.

As I bask in my glance and walking tall,
Asked for ID I tear it all,
With the shoes thrown off
And Mind elegantly deformed
I ravish how they eyes are stupefied, so lost

Well, seeming Madam/Sir,
No letter or phone shall make me up,
No telling shall ever be enough
to push all the liquids of senses, acts
from before my eyes
to your lips’ or ears’ sight,
Yet to have it done already
I’ll try to muster an answer
of that measly form,
So on a silent yet like jazz smooth
rampage I go:

I, am,
Immortal Poetry,
Of greater feverishness than a human kiss,
That even I can’t deprive myself of.
I have no restricted name,
Age or body & its ***.

I am eternal pilgrim on that soil,
With my place in My Lover high above,
With no human maternal language.
A Dreamweaver,
Novel,
Sensation in a melody,
Howling Nighty-Starry Wind.

All the gazes & chases I made in my books,
All longings & katharsi of mine.
Un Alma Perdida de ojos y pelo dorados
Que extraña su justo hogar entre versos,
Hierba y estrellas.

A prologue and an epilogue,
C-major on a private, broken guitar string,
Haze, blur in your mind.
The stars I barely see,
My ****** of skin,
And stern eyes of love-arousing passing-by
among the beasts of your kin.

I. Am. I.
For now so much to add,
Now, seeming Sir/Madam,
I’ll let myself pass by