(Interlude)

My eyes in 1910
never saw the dead being buried,
or the ashen festival of a man weeping at dawn,
or the heart that trembles cornered like a sea horse.

My eyes in 1910
saw the white wall where girls urinated,
the bull's muzzle, the poisonous mushroom,
and a meaningless moon in the corners
that lit up pieces of dry lemon under the hard black of bottles.

My eyes on the pony's neck,
in the pierced breast of a sleeping Saint Rose,
on the rooftops of love, with whipers and cool hands,
in a garden where the cats ate frogs.

Attic where old dust gathers statues and moss,
boxes keeping the silence of devoured *****
in a place where sleep stumbled onto its reality.
There my small eyes.

Don't ask me anything. I've seen that things
find their void when they search for direction.
There is a sorrow of holes in the unpeopled air
and in my eyes clothed creatures - undenuded!

The water glisten like crystal
As dragonflies dance to the music of the surf
A symphony of sound emanates from this quiet section on earth
Adam lays in the shadow of the coconut tree, listening
A splash in the distance distracts his attention
Eve emerges from the sweet blue water
Her basket full of fish
Swinging her hips in a coquetish way
Adam catches his breath
Her beauty confusing his senses
Leaving him defenseless
Its time, whipers the serpent
Taste the fruit she so wantonly offers

We're there early to set up
As they tow the cars
Parked along the street
Adorned with bright red
Tickets under their windshield
Whipers

A man appears from a
Windowed apartment building
Door yelling in spanish
He gets in one of the cars
Gets out and takes the ticket
Off the windshield
Gets back in cursing
In spanish
And peels out of sight
Around the corner

he takes off her coat and hangs near the mirror
Gently whipers don't worry my dear
It won't hurt.
He takes off her jacket undoing her shirt
If you could read her mind you wouldnt learn what she slurred
In the desperate moment
When noone dares to look
She is scared as a rabbit
That's just been caught by a Wolf
Not the first time she trembles
But first time feels ashamed
Not the first time shes kissing
First time her thoughts are hissing
Like white noise in her head.

I've become very fond of my no's,
and the ways in which the
wind does not go.

Lend me your question
and I'll lend you my no,
after my season upon
season of insatiable yes.

I cozy up next to my no
like the cold to a stove,
we are a perfect match,
her and I and we dance
the tango at midnight.

My no is starting to have
a mind of her own,
enlarged ego and a
questionable claim
to a no man's throne,
her master plan
to repurpose my
night away from the
masses and throngs
who never seem to
know which way to go.

I "no" my way into secluded gardens,
water sheds and cemeteries,  
preferably alone, where my no's
like to stampede over the paths,
forging her own.

I've made friends with my "no's",
so much so I dont know
which way to go without her.
The road to yes is paved
with a thousand good no's
is what she subtly whipers to me
as I gaze over to you,
and your question starting to
drip into our current affair.

What better sound shall
pour from my lips than
the steady cadence of
my self-assured no?