Call it Quicksilver-
something I hold to,
leave and return to,
lose in dark leaves;
never quite keeping,
thoughts flit, and are fleeting,
covered with sheaves.
Sleep, and its missing,
ne'er to return;
Hold! Feel its kissing,
overtake with its burn-
late to my tongue,
but one part of the sum,
sifted like rays in the afternoon sun.
Call it Quicksilver-
that thing dreamt at mid-day;
call for it, longing-
but its gone;
slipped away.

an idea blows
across a global garden
cities shake like leaves

Van Gogh’s ear sings tales all night
Soulful moaning over mind’s eye sight

Antagonize the heart and turn the eye
A visitor to the heart or passing by

From this spring that we all drink
What whispers all the thoughts we think

Lunatic genius with eyes turned in
Tell me where my mind has been

A freighting tether is shelter and cage
Where the writer’s pen touches page

Ink’s fossil trail bleeding from my pen
A history of where my heart has been

To go and not say in doing so
Beyond this point no words can go

With feet of clay and hand to chalk
I’ve come to hear Van Gogh’s ear talk

black lives matter so
black lies matter so
dive in deep waters to
die in deep waters to
be seven as the samurai
be seen as the samurai
your mind curved
your mind cured
starve and
stare and
carving your name in history make
caring your name in history make
the world: invert
the world: inert
an ideology to believe
an ideology to belie

Though another day passes,
once having arrived,
cinnamon sunny
with a misguided preaching
from a catholic church,

I recall our gorgeous
misty evening
right by the waves
from yesterday
and its one peculiar
moment:
my dad pointed to
a far away regatta
sailing in
a distance
whilst standing to my
right and asked
me not quoting

“Do you know why
I wanted to go
to the sea?
The vastness of that body,
no endings in infinity,
no one to tell me
what to do,
and once you sailed away
from the harbour
it was just
it
living.

Whilst I was on my night shift
at the very front
of the ship
on my ever first voyage
by sea,
heading to
England from Gdynia,
I felt as if I
was the very first
man to discover the oncoming
land,
like Cristopher Columbus
with his dear Santa María
breaking the waves”.

Yes, Dad.
I would add,
settled in my question

“Why do I long somehow
in smaller
or bigger
ways too at
times for that
aforementioned harbour
and otherness with so many
sounds, details,
lights and
dancing dangerous like
knives in a tavern
thrown?
For so similar
yet
so privately schemed
departures I paint?”,

I would answer
without Brain,
even if it would be solely
in perfect, dreamy way
sketched:

“Because there is
some greater and
truer breath
of mine held out
by a foreign hand
or by standing lonely
from the other mirror’s side
in front of some tremendous
waves of Kanagawa,
hugging itself small
yet with fearless Child’s
patience, like
the Young Verter
on his painting.
Some more abstract
and
breathtaking
with charisma image
of me there
stands, flowing
instead of walking,
through called aisles.
Beige coat into the
blue falling.

The No Man’s Skies
and Lands
(or yet
Of Some Men)
to be felt with all
the body and
upraising in all hues
and minute sacrifices
in speechless
wonders,
like lagoon’s turquoise
water that would shine
in a cave’s dark
with krill dancing.”

Some upholdings,
some blind images
and all rest
fresh,
windy,
dark
and light with grey
whose voicing
I cannot make,
not just to keep
it in immaculation
to stay non-maimed.

Tss
Ouch.
The Missing.

El,
ese,
acantilado.

I am on my own
a Lighthouse Keeper
amidst the Night,
each fly,
in some presence:
coalition of a duty protruding
by thoughts,
delusions,
stories and
what’s exquisite
in sensations that
need guarding,
and then enjoined
with that never ending standing,
watching,
time lapping,
and all that taking place
in the ink hues with
scarlet pulsing as if hurt,
in baby blue
and lilac
by a sacrality
to me solely
constantly
held out
on
a string
to never let go
of
to
another.

maybe you were in love with those conversation we shared by the balcony while staring at the sky

or maybe you were in love with those sweet messages i sent you as soon as i wake up

or maybe you were in love with those poems i wrote for you specially when you are feeling blue

maybe you were in love of the idea of me being there

maybe you were in love with those,

but never with me.