#carlocgomez
somehow has learned to make the
standardized 24 hour clock,
extend to 36,
in paradiso Hawaii,
who would not extend the day?
for his love of poetry,
his adoration of the muses,
is so little constrained by human hours
defined, his internal clock amended,
between reading near to nearly,
each gets a reading, all poems
that land here, in his hands,
safe harboring
an unappointed
referee,
a judicial soul,
who manages in between tasks
to write poetry incroyable,
even exceptional, without exception
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 3:10 PM UTC
"In fog or flood, it has to look like news
and not wear down too soon."
And so, your words arrive, unshaken,
standing against time like typeface pressed into permanence.
They do not beg for attention,
yet we find ourselves held captive—
reading, rereading, lost in the weight of their silence.
"First God
Then Everest
To the ends of elation."
There is an ascent in your lines,
a climb where breath turns thin
and meaning thickens into something celestial.
You write of heights that pull and eyes that burn,
where light is both burden and gift,
and even hesitation becomes poetry.
"Maternal midnight
Metallic lakeside
Freon heart, fayence mind."
You forge night from iron,
a heart that hums in artificial cold,
a mind glazed like ceramic, fragile yet infinite.
Even your landscapes breathe—
lakes reflecting the surreal,
hills like white elephants waiting for meaning.
"Mosquitos on her mouth
Drink the blood of encryption
Change the tone of her voice."
What is hidden, you unveil.
What is encrypted, you translate into ghosts and echoes.
In your poetry, voices are rewritten,
veins are maps,
words are particles dissolving into eternity.
You, Carlo, are the architect of thresholds—
where dusk is not an ending but an exile,
where each poem is a place, a paradox, a pilgrimage.
Your lines do not just linger—
they transform.
Mar 5, 2025
Mar 5, 2025 at 6:01 AM UTC