Vultures breathe like dragons,
old chalky smoke dissipating into the two story windows.
They silently stalk the curvature of the walls
each step freeing grimy steam,
the constant chugging of a train.
Can’t keep their scarves under control
weaving like salmon up stream,
their stiletto heels making no sound
washed out by typing and keyboard sighs.

Apotheosis (Latin): to become god,
each word in these shelves claim emperor status,
fiction novels start their own scrapbooks
encyclopaedias reach the 5th floor
committing literary suicide.
Don’t keep books open
the words will float away.
Letters will do anything to escape their pages.

History on hierarchy
exploiting the 19th century microfilm
making a hierarchy in the history section,
jamming the 20 cent printers with advertisements.
Riots silently blossom,
hidden in broken globes
from Ecuador to Kenya.
They are uprising
burning the library down.

You make me worry about losing my memory.
Because right now I've reached a stage where I've forgotten to forget you,
so if I really did lose my memory I wouldn't just be losing my identity,
but also you.
And the problem is, I can live without knowing myself,
but wouldn't survive a second without knowing you.

You make me want to write poems.
My fingers crave to type endlessly until I've written more words than
the bible and the encyclopaedias A-Z combined into infinity,
but my brain numbs.
I'm bilingual but thinking of you makes me inarticulate in both, and
fluent in clichés instead.

You make me feel like a 16 year old...scrap that, a 14 year old,
falling in love for the first time, and I'm neither.
Lately I've been spending a lifetime editing photos of you and me,
on Microsoft Paint, adding hearts and stars and lipstick marks.
And tagging you in every quote, video, song and photo on facebook,
provided they have a remote connection to something romantic.

You make me want to break Pastor Aeternus ,
after 12 years of Sunday school, as a student and a teacher.
I want to travel between Testaments, arguing with prophets and saints,
trying to explain how you make me feel, crave, arouse.
Because each time we meet, even before we speak, or touch,
the demon within me is awaken, beholding the paradise in your eyes.

You make me want to ****** you, even after 4 months,
and 3 weeks, of a solid relationship.
To wear make-up and high heels, to dress up or down or... not,
provoking, tempting and coaxing to take a bite out of the same apple,
but deeper, tying you to the bed and taking you in a kitchen, just
to see that pure expression of bliss on your face.

You make me search the depth of my soul, the bottom of my heart and
every corner of my mind, for more love to give you, everyday.
Paint the future in any colour, shape or form, and when you're done,
place me in it, because I will always fit right in, just like when we spoon.
Someday, when we're standing next to God I will ask him to show you
the timeline, when he sent you from heaven into my life, because

only an Angel could make this fragile heart, fall in love again.

There are countless words I can use,
        my darling,
        an infinite number,
to describe my adoration for you,
        but none are adequate.

I would build up a mountain for you,
        my darling,
        using only dirt and a spoon,
and I would tear it down again,
        if only you asked.

I would fight for your freedom to choose,
        my darling,
        if you so desired,
and I would create countries in your name,
        just say it is so.

I would create new words for you,
        my darling,
        for none truly can describe my love,
and you are so worthy of new and beautiful things,
        only wish it so.

I would write encyclopaedias for you,
        my darling,
        containing pages of my admiration,
and my devotion toward you, to tell the world,
        simply order me.

I would create an altar at which to worship you,
        my darling,
        made of gold and ivory and dazzling gems,
you are worth all expenses, worth all my faith,
        just deem it be.

You do not even realize it,
        my darling,
        but you are so perfect,
so utterly gorgeous in action, so kind and gracious,
        but so small
                in confidence.

If only, my darling,
        if only you could love yourself
the way that I do, so utterly and completely;
        just say the words, my darling,
                and I will follow you.

I believe
it was Neruda
who once said
‘Tonight
I can write the saddest lines’.
Well I guess
tonight,
I can write
books,
encyclopaedias,
libraries
and still never say enough.
You are the words in my sentence
and the poem in my pen,
even now.

first learn to be a loner, then continually learn this isolation, by simply writing, or say it like you really mean it: i've got a cough and i need to hush it with something cold, a sharpshooter (balance in favour of whiskey rather than the mixer) will do, to freeze the agitated region of the throat.*

the digital imprint changes things, the old guard
of the printing press and the loss of forests
are watching and guarding the
outlet outposts in deliberation,
the high street has shrunk
to shoe shops, clothing shops
and mobile phone stores...
and those ****** book stores
that only sell autobiographies
of famous people, encyclopaedias,
atlases and tabloids of other artefacts
of nonsense... perhaps a charity shop
once in a while, banks aplenty
and fast food outlets... a generic
cloning device known as a starbucks
of those immersed intellectuals and
"serious" writers looking for a busyness gimmick...
the high street's diversity has turned
into a suburban street... rows and rows
of identical houses... all because
people decided with the slogan: ART IS FREE...
a bit like that problem with poetry...
they want it to be neat... they want geometric
neatness rather than the oddity of juxtaposed
colour... like a history book, e.g.:
There was once a town in the vicinity of Paris, where a farmer lived with his wife and they had twenty chickens. One day, one of the chickens laid a dinosaur egg and the farmer and his wife were eaten, which was a noumenon (a phenomenon of 1, a non-viral kind of phenomenon), because the area was plagued by a cannibalistic epidemic, which, to the authorities, was a disappearing necrophilia, the dinosaur egg that hatched and became a dinosaur that ate things just spiced things up... hence it didn't trend and became a myth, which is why most people treat myths as *******, because they're too plain mundane suited & booted and therefore excluded from myth-making that's reserved for a few (ezra pound's lamentation is adequate here: fountain of beauty, yet so few... so few drink from it).
you know, bogus ****, clear form, clear punctuation,
vampires, virgins and re-interpretations of Tolstoy...
nothing unusual... but it ****** me off
that when they allow free reign in painting,
poetry has to be neat, courteous, well-understood
in order to be recited from memory (the first
thing that puts people off poetry is the need to
recite it as the educational system says, hence
the technique of rhyming being crucial as a
numbing cognitive stimulant of memory usage
where you're told to forget personal memories,
priceless memories, just to remember, one,
stupid, poem... how about you recite me
the ******* recipe for spaghetti bolognese?
huh? oh right... you can't! here's a happy meal
or a ready meal... *******!
looking for inspiration?
the lost art of listening to an entire album
by one artist: vomito ***** - fall of an empire.

If you ever saw my grandfather, you’d definitely see him wearing his green jacket and gray knitted cap with green stripes. Even during the summer, and especially the hot ones in Monterrey, my grandfather would stick to these items and roam around, fresher than ever, under the fervent rays of the sun. When we went to the beach he would cross the lobby and reach the shore with his swimsuit under his several layers of clothing, including the jacket and beanie. Ironically, he loved swimming, and would get into a pool even if it felt like freezing. As soon as he removed his jacket and knitted cap he would immediately go to the water and right after he was done he would go and change back into his warm garments, not a single second in between without his jacket and beanie’s protection. Sometimes, the family gathered in exterior living rooms during the summer to hang out and swim in the pool. As we talked to each other, he would eventually, sneakily, get out of his chair, adjusting his beanie, walk towards the electricity switch and turn off the fan hoping we wouldn’t notice because he was cold and knew none of us were going to turn them off if he asked us. Because he wore these items all the time, they became a part of him, and they were present in all of his events. A knitted cap and a jacket turned into collectors of memories, events and knowledge. With his passion for reading, especially encyclopaedias, the knowledge seemed to transfer all the way to his beanie, maintaining and remembering all the mesmerizing details he learned day by day. This jacket and knitted cap were able to contemplate Mexican beaches, rest in a cruise in the Bahamas, visit many museums in Europe, hop into a hot air ballon in Istanbul and even ride camels while enjoying the views of Egypt. After years of accumulating all of these experiences, my mother did try to give him a new jacket as a Christmas present, and even though he was grateful for it, his well-known green jacket was irreplaceable. I will never understand why he was always cold, but his cap, knitted with love by my grandmother years before, seemed more than just a heat source for him, as if the beanie would boost him with confidence and protect him everywhere he went.

oral commands work sometimes

here

another time it does not



i tried talking to the light

yet no one answered as nothing is set



in that respect

yet



at jamaica inn those days

they had no alexa

only servants to do

the deeds & random chores



no promise of an answer for and of

everything

encyclopaedias in between



with the surprise

of spelling it right

i feel



i forget what the other word was