Religion Class, Fall, 2009

The strangest of the strange's eyes. Pure mystery. Do you feel? What's so small in my day? Should I excommunicate it? When the lady at the coffee shop asks me with

l••••••••o•••••n•••••g

pauses

how am I doing? I see tired in the mirror of her eyes, is it her or me? Her night job is piercing artist. Her words, gage 6 in the drums of my ears, please. Wake me up to the real question, and that is "How am I doing?" I take

l••••••••o•••••n•••••g

pauses

as well. To breathe.

Her hands were light, I barely felt them through my skin. I am bleeding. Normal. I smile. A monochromatic type of smile, followed by some nodding "How are you, dear?". She doesn't hesitate, her answer was not automated although she held a Glock to my head and shot me: "as good as only I want to be". Seriously... is it just me or are you all also noticing the message she has just delivered to me?! Was she also a mailman?

Then I gulp down my hot coffee. Shot of reality (stop overthinking). A brownish stream of artificial sugar mingled with (can you just drink your coffee??!) soy that is transformed into milk (oh my God, this is FASCINATING) swimming in my stomach?

Remember when I put 5 packs of sweetener in your coffee and you nearly spitted the whole thing at me? But you contained yourself (I need to contain myself). I had that jacket on that you love and you praise my looks a lot. You would never dare to stain my clothes. You become what you look like, no shit your eyeliner always looked perfect. Take me for a ride? You're an excellent rider. You pull back on the reins of intensity and shift your weight to the back of the saddle so we can both just be.

The smell of coffee with soy milk invaded my nostrils (another hit of reality), like some Mexican bastard trying to break into the border. I don't know Mexican boy if I can let you in. I'm Argentinean, I know I should, I understand how decadent you are, but I know nothing of brotherhood. I was the only child. Plus, my remote French descent despises your lack of refinement.

A kid is swinging her feet across from me. Kids always want to know and kids always ask why but they never overthink. When I was a kid there was no overthinking about how coffee smelled like. My mom made me the best coffee yeah, my underdeveloped childhood was great. I went to bed craving to wake up and have that coffee in the morning with bacon and eggs I don't know why I love so much when the train is rocking left and right, left and right. I don't know why my mom stopped making such good coffee. I don't know why she always left me 4 or 5 extras packs of sweetener (did she think I grew bitter?). Incredible, there used to be an appetite for breakfast living in my belly. Nowadays I can't take much more than just coffee. Abortion of appetite.

STOP.

The train is pregnant of me.

I need to be born.

Was I ready for it?

Would it love me?

Would it just abort me...?

People in the waiting room might just leave. This labor has been lingering. I haven't worn a watch for years and years but I understand time. Whenever I dare to look at the clock it challenges me with peculiar times like 10:10 or 5:05 or 3:33, 7:07... numbers are so cold but these ones grinned at me. They wanted to fuck with me, that's for sure. I always miss 11:11 though. That was her favorite time. And I always missed it. Guess it means I will always miss her. I have always missed her.

You tell me again, what's so small in my life? Should I excommunicate it?!

Would you?

Ignore God?

You believe in something big. I believe in the small and I'm his biggest devotee.

[Untitled]

Upside down words

bleed perfectly from pen to paper,

pulsate in the

brain of my heart

signals of

interconnectedness

between your lips

and mine:

I just ran out of ink, girl,

I need some inspiration!

You blew smoke

in my mouth,

it made home

my lungs,

it stole my oxygen,

and you were scientifically

allowed to do so.

You insisted I

x-ray,

I have no problems with

nakedness

when it's your skin

blending into mine.

I mentally write with my right,

I think with my left,

you tell me now

if love ain't ambidextrous?

You had to agree with me,

nodding.

Your silent words twisted

around the earlobes

of my fears.

Mine tingling

the bellybutton of

your certainties...

Who would have thought

we'd ever use more than

8% of the brain in our hearts!?

Trust

Please,

fuck me poem!

Ah,

flipped first verse

of liquid metaphors

in the velveteen

of my skin,

be gentle and firm

when crashing

second verse

of all symbology,

two does better than one

into

me

I'm nailing you across

lines of your third

envoy,

leaving marks on your soil,

you don't gotta worry,

I always find my way

back

to you,

morph

from adagio

to a crescendo,

make me (your) arching mistress,

the maestro of (your) rhythm,

I conduct a whole orchestra

screaming from the feet of

(your) letters

to the phrases of

(your) lips,

you uh mmhmm and huh huh me,

as if you were the author

and not the character.

I'll be the author,

you'll be the character,

I'll be the character,

you'll be the author.

And that's how

poetry is made.

Stand Clear of the Closing Doors

The ambience

is muted,

the vision is

perplexed,

there is no

blinking

on this rocking train.

It does it feather-softly,

it dances a

false

valse,

and I remain,

muted,

perplexed,

unblinked.

Lead my way blinding trust...

Bring me my voice

fuckin' falsetto.

A piano in the

background

where you have

neither my

back nor my

g r o u n d.

A childish melody,

solo piece,

a frustrated

symphony

from finger-long hands.

And that's all you have:

long fingers,

lack of talent.

On the rocking train

we forget

and fall asleep on

one another

(so against the rules).

A blink from me

and you're gone

(just following the rules).

Prozaic Poetry

[Yes, prozaic with "z" ;)]

Why do I keep

coming to these

open mic poetry nights thing?

It's pathetic

how lonely my poems

feel laying down on the

yellowish ruled pages of my Moleskine.

It's just pathetic

how the ink wants

to bleed its way out

of these

yellowish ruled pages of my Moleskine.

Is it really just

my poetry,

product of the void

eating my little humanity alive?

Or is it its author

laying bare naked

on top of these

cold lines from the

yellowish ruled pages of my Moleskine?

Do you really

want to know

why

I keep

coming to these

open mic poetry nights thing?

Dear?

God?

You know how people

go to bars, get a little drunk,

expect a beautiful, tall,

blond, blue-eyed, intelligent,

complex but not complicated,

very affectionate,

wild but not crazy girl,

between the age of

24 and 30,

preferably Aries, Aquarius,

Leo or Sagittarius

to sit next to them,

be in the same wavelength,

talk, laugh, challenge,

perhaps slightly touch,

pretend that it's too loud,

she can't hear them, so she

has to get closer.

And all of this in the

amount of time it takes you

to finish your favorite drink?

Well, that's what I do at

open mic poetry nights thing.

I drink poetry,

I get girls drunk

with my poems,

I talk, I make them laugh,

I challenge them,

I touch them, and it's not

just slightly touch.

I pretend like nobody else does

that it's-too-loud-I-can't-hear-you deal,

so I have

to get closer, I have to

make them feel the warm

air coming out of my

poetic mouth:

I take them home,

I make love, this is why

I'm a poet;

they fuck, this is why

they are just girls.

I feel metaphors

crawling up and down my

spine, there are rhymes

coming in, coming out,

in and out.

In. Out.

Beautiful.

The last stanza

and the climax.

That's what I tell myself.

That it was poetic...

how I turned the lamp off,

how all that remained was

the dull light of a cheap neon

sign reflected on my window.

And you dare to fuckin'

ask me why I keep coming to these

open mic poetry nights thing??

You fuckin' heartless prick,

I keep coming back

because I have not yet found love.

Sometimes Stop, Sometimes Go

[Design inspired by this song by Ms. John Soda and poem inspired by El Perro del Mar]

Don't try

to guess

the way

your eyelash

lands

on the hills

and cliffs

of the moment

when your eyes

are shut

and you're about

to blow it away.

Don't guess

the way

this lotus found

its way

through seaweed and then

relief in my

reef.

Don't guess

the way...

Don't guess the way...

The Prophet and the General

When I chose

belief

you went for

ignorance.

[Title in the End]

I looked at her.
I wanted to listen
and then kiss her,
dive into those
unknown, perhaps
bitter-sweet lips
for she wore
cigarettes ashes
as lipstick
and loved whiskey!
And overall I guess
she's been through a lot;
still I see through her,
her warmth was undeniable
so I just listened.
I knew she was almost
as messy as her hair,
I loooove her hair by the way,
but I certainly did not love her.
I've known her for precisely
full 10 minutes,
time enough to say
I want to see her again
if her words are not
just words but poetry,
if her eyes look into mine
and not everywhere else,
if she just shuts up
and asks me questions
I don't expect, well, at this
point, if she just asks me
any questions at all
(people rarely ask me
anything worth answering).
One hour later
I still want to kiss her,
I guess that means
I'll have to see her again,
to listen.

- The Brewer

[Title in the End]

Exhaustion:

I am in a sauna

of sheer dissapointments,

I'm sweating off

these ridiculous

patterns,

you're complicated?

Really girl, I'll pass.

I like complex,

not complicated.

Equations are fine,

how you deal with

them is (a)pathetic.

I'm wiping off

what seems to be

endless drops,

droping them off

I am,

wiping off

drops of need,

I don't need you,

I never did, I just

chose to have you here,

now leave the door

open

as you leave,

there's much,

much more

to be let into me.

I squeeze

out of my pores,

they spit

out pus zits and

dust-black acnes once

incrusted in my skin,

and I won't allow

any other product

to ever touch my face,

any other lotion

to ever melt into my body,

I swore it before,

like that actress

in that commercial,

now i'm swearing it

as if I was marrying it:

no produce from

a poster girl

to ever touch me.

- The Brewer

Yoga Class, Fall 2009

Candles and incense,
my fears sink

into your mat,
wind and breath,
my balance is found
on the arch of your back.

Our chests grow
high and low,

it's inevitable

to do child's pose.

Stretching

emotions thin,

a drop

of sweat within,

embrace

cushion-heart

in warrior I and II

it's like we already knew.

Lighter and

heavier,

faster than

slower,

so slow it's

fast,

the smoke

of sage

is so vast

it intertwines

the gaps

of our bodies.

We rest,

we reach

Savasana.

History Class, Fall, 2009

Detour of energy:
everything was a mere
c o i n c i d e n c e .

From poetry to prose
in one verse.

When spontaneity
was brought to
psychoanalysis.

Void.
Expiration date.
Check.
Double check.
Triple check.

Dialogues turned into
m o n o l o g u e s,
the time ticking analog
seconds of complete
non-recyclable waste.

As ties break
we're here
to gather, not
t o g h e t h e r;
to gather our old
selves again,
to wear the same
yellowed-stained shirt,
and to be
exactly what we were
before, what we have
always been.

Humanity is fucking brilliant.

Swimming Class, Fall, 2009

I sank

into my own

water of thoughts.

She,

right,

my leg,

lifted up,

pulled me up,

on the kitchen

sink,

unbuttoned

my fears,

unzipped

that bit

of reluctance

in me,

scratched paths

I had not yet crossed

and dared to look

me in the eyes.

On the kitchen

sink:

the night I learned

how to swim.

The Investors

Blunt

pierces

more barbaric

than sharp

and that's

your card

you roll

cater-trey deice

my face in

polyhedral shapes

the predictability

is high

I bet

you bet

How many chips

are we willing

to spend?

Emotionlessness

to sustain

this call:

turn the cards over!

Diamond

Waves lips

and and

sheets hands

Our particles

liquefy

(one)

yet

these atoms

duo-diamond-solid.

The Linguists

We speak
"when we..."
instead of
"if we..."

conditional
adverb

My pronoun
ad
your pronoun
slip of the
tongue
on that possessive

the book of
grammar?
Skipped!

The semantics of
the verb
"to be"

We speak
"are"
we speak
"is"
as intransitive.

masterpiece

The oil
of my fingerbrush tips
pure chemistry
across
your canvas
your texture
my eyes
blind
and then
we do it:
our painting.

inevitability part 2

When does
love stop?

It never
stops.
It becomes
something else.

inevitability

my trampoline, fear.

Sanitized emotions?

I pass.

.Deja.vu.

Now I'm gonna

perform

and pretend you're
sitting on the
first row
and I'll declaim something

only you

and I
would get
'cause you
were there
when I was

conceived

you were part of the
creative process

And the lights would go off
the sound of the mic
fading away
into low keys
of an old organ

we were in
silence

the scene was
rouge
the fabric
the floor...
And then silhouettes

approaching one another
infusing
into one another
weldingengraving
into
one

.Silence.
.Still.
.Moving. Changing

Sublime

My trampoline:
fear.

8

When does
love stop?

It never
stops
it becomes
something else.

Freya

My poems
in
between
hers

lack in punctuation
the rhythm
we
create

is new
everytime

EXI[S]T

Pouring of
her selves,
my skin
overflows
infusion of
potential tea leaves
(dear Buddha…)

veins tingle
at the near touch
[in]experience
(grant me thy posture)

Eyes followers,
You
&
Me
leading
the army
somewhere.

My Choice

My pattern:
to break
other people's patterns,
and by doing so
I cannot
break
my own.

Caught Off Guard

Thoughts traipse,
collision of
our
parallels.

Admit it.

You were
thinking of me.

Weekly Budget

42 hours of my week
sleep,
approximately 21 hours of my week
catching the E,
30 hours of my week
too messy to think,
33 hours of my week
I am a machine,
42 hours of my week
what I was born to be:
steam.

Waiting

The bench:
I sit
Memories of her
my blood,
her absence
Why I sit
on this bench
alone.

Cigarettes tips,
smile,
I hate them,
smile,
smile,
lipstick of ashes,
Rooibos,
I kiss the floor,
on the Bench,
still,
on the Bench.

Libra and Sagittarius

Sweet deluge
of heart beats
(arrhythmic)

Melting of masks
but wearing hoods
(asymmetric)

Cigarettes left aside,
the only thing burning,
those eyes can’t lie
(atemporal)

Everyone left,
She stayed
(what does it mean?)

Couple In Love

They hold hands,
they stare
at 1 (one) another
“what…”,
they smile,
“what…”

The Lotus

Attraction
Involuntary
Contraction

Vulnerability
Human
Emotions

Trust
Nakedness
of Soul

Trust
Time
to Unfold

Friendship
The most of the Worst
The most of the Best

L.O.V.E
the Lasting Ovulating Vast Energy
the Lingo of Omniscience Vital Energy
the Language of Ovulating Vital Energy
the Lasting Oceanic Vibration of Energy
the Language of Occult Vibration of Energy
the Liquid of Oily Veins of Energy
the Liquid Orienting Veins of Energy
the Liquid Outgrowing Vines of Energy
the Liberating Option of Vitality and Energy
the Lasting Omnifying Vocabulary to Express...

Communication

Accidentally
accommodated
next to me
her hand
is acupuncture:
she strokes my arm
but I feel it in my heart,
some sort of natural
flow of silence,
the one that speaks
for itself,
the unsaid that feels
more than said,
the stage of just
Being.

About Synchronicities and Patterns

I am still trying to decipher the logic of patterns in my life, and in conjunction, how to interpret the synchronicities flying before my eyes. At the present moment I am obsessing over why 19 out of 20 times that I am walking to work the light to cross to the other side of Columbus Avenue, where I eventually have to go to, is simply not green.
Due to that impertinent light I am forced to walk straight up for another block, which, FINE, it’s still OK and it’s still on my way, but it bothers me, why, WHY can’t I just cross first and then walk that other block?
So I decided to carefully observe every single thing on that side of the block. Oh my God, I was just completely blown away by so many things that there were in that 264 x 1056 square block! Maybe I was meant to trip on a one million dollar check!
Thus I spent a couple of days scanning the ground in search for my fortunate treasure. I gave up on it when I started tripping too much on absolutely nothing, because obviously I’m not used to walking like some sort of famished dog sniffing every bit of the ground in hope to find some leftovers.
Then I thought maybe I was meant to find my soul mate! Yeah… so I embodied the seductress huntress persona and threw as many fatale gazes as I could into every person’s eyes (well, not really every person… oddly enough they seemed to range between age 24 and 30 and be either tall, blond with blue or green eyes or medium-height black-haired sexy, hot, beautiful women. But that’s just a coincidence!).
Some smiled back, some were highly disturbed by my look. I don’t blame them, I mean, I was staring at them like when you’re expecting someone to tell you something you know? “So… what’s up…? [looooong pause] Are you gonna reveal yourself as my soul mate now or what?”.
Anyways, back to all this being just a coincidence, the question that pops up to my head is whether everything happens for a reason or if there are some things that just happen. If there are things that just happen randomly then I surely believe in coincidences, which I am sure I don’t. I know it’s not in my power to explain everything and find all these why’s, but random? I don’t buy it.
Having this issue solved, let’s talk about synchronicities. For instance, my subconscious screamed “hot, tall, blonde, medium-height, black-haired, beautiful, foxy ladies, pleeeeaseeeee!” therefore alluring the energies that read those characteristics to my welcoming lap.
It would be possible though to perhaps have ran into a fat, bald, old lady whose energy really felt and believed that it contained the points I sought, as well as it would be possible that a strikingly beautiful woman passed by me unknown, for maybe she was deeply feeling unsexy and unwanted.
Well, still to this day I have not yet found my soul mate. So I tried thousands of other different approaches in order to find anything meaningful enough to explain to me why the universe prevented me from crossing. Maybe I’d die if crossed! That sounded like a logical explanation. I have always envisioned myself dying in a car and I was definitely not ready to die, so yeah… it made sense… sort of.
It still remains a mystery to me this particular pattern of non-crossing, but I have not yet given up trying to understand where the synchronicities are taking me. It is fascinating and exciting.
The reason why I don’t stop trying to analyze them is because I refuse the idea of fatalism. Being said so, I believe I contribute in part to the control on how things unfold in my life. It is up to the universe, true, but it is also up to me.
Sometimes, aren’t you in a situation where you really, really wanted something and then the very opposite just happened? And years later you look back and you’re like “fuck yeah, thank God I didn’t hook up with that crazy dude. He’s in jail now for murder” or something? Believe me, NOT a coincidence.
And how about when you finally find someone incredible, and awesome and you both decide to be into a relationship and then bang! Bang!: all these hot ladies come flying at you, calling you, all of a sudden! Telling you how much they want to “hang out” and shit… So intriguing… yes, but this is story for another chapter.

Hedonists

She told me she thought she was always missing out on things and I told her I'm always thinking about how much I gain. And that was the main difference between us.

Relationship with Patient #28: TERMINATED

She had a good heart, but she had arrhythmia.

Dans ma Lumiére: The Sentinel

Watching the people who pass by. Sitting on any given random wood seat. What’s the purpose? Of the wood you mean? Or the any given seat? Or the figures of that that is endlessly passing, passing. Everything is always passing, she’s always watching. The Tower. She saw the crippled man move her favorite chess piece.
It was time to make a move. Standing up, crossing the street to the nearest gas station. Ethereal.
Corroded wood door: already open. They say a human being needs approximately 30m². I don’t know. Maybe. Need. That’s the minimum you would need in order to feel that uncomforted zone but still manage it. The toilet was big enough to turn fingers into weapons of a chirurgical precision and her thoughts, the puke. They fit nice. The herd tormenting fits nice. And as it builds up to a crescendo, fingers are like bows gridding against ran down strings of hope and faithlessness. Someone call a luthier.
Flush it down. Gulp down the rest of air left in what’s left of your lungs and watch it all go again. Down. It’s a downwards spiral. I start off from a central point and in a progressive progression I get myself farther and farther away while still revolving around it…
Sounds familiar? You wannabe helix!
The adrenaline inebriated motion. Inebriated emotion. But her moments never seemed to be this perpetual before. It is even etymologically incorrect to call them moments. Self-deception. Self-decapitation.
She reached through her pocket. Time to become the Sentinel. As swallowing it the prayer of the day:
extreme thirst, urinating more or less than usual; weakness, fever, feeling restless or confused, eye pain and vision problems; restless muscle movements in your eyes, tongue, jaw, or neck; pain, cold feeling, or discoloration in your fingers or toes; feeling light-headed, fainting, slow heart rate; hallucinations, seizure (blackout or convulsions); fever with muscle stiffness, sweating, fast or uneven heartbeats; or early signs of lithium toxicity, such as nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, drowsiness, muscle weakness, tremor, lack of coordination, blurred vision, or ringing in your ears.
Less serious side effects:
mild tremor of the hands; weakness, lack of coordination; mild nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite, stomach pain or upset; thinning or drying of the hair; or itching skin.
There she was. Observing her being from outside. Watching. What's the purpose?

Raffaella Ciavatta

From a steamy window
I watch
singular couples
open & close their mouths.
To eat.

I hear what they say:
the clinking of silverware.
I feel what they feel:
medium rare emotions.









I wish I were 30:
the age I dream I'll
be a successful artist
to the rest of the world
(and to myself),
I will have my own
apartment, actually
it will be the era I will
use our more than anything.
So our apartment.
I would definitely love
to share my space
with my soul mate.

Sharing is one of
my many qualities:
hey, would you like some gum?
would like some of my dish?
Do you want to borrow this book?
Of course I can share my time with you!
My heart? Yes, I'll share that!
My mind? Yes! I'm getting excited here!
My soul? Without hesitation!
My whole being? Yes, yes, yes!

And all that to whom?
To broad, high-definition,
high-speed connections
we eagerly make
on a subway rides and
dare to call them connections?
Are you fucking kidding me?

But hey, by the time I'm 30,
I will have known better.
I will not connect on subways.

That means today I have
approximately 4 years and
2 months
to 1 be as famous as Picasso,
2 meet a woman who will first
be my friend then will magically
become the most amazing lover
I’ve ever had and right before
I turn 30 will use our like never before.

All of that in 4 years and 2 months.

When Doing Things, Just DO Them

Cried, I would have,
Put my armor to rest,
I would have,
Taken her hands to my darkness,
I would have,
Written a thousand more poems,
I would have.

Enough of poetry.
Cut this crap.

Friendship is not a capsule dear,
you can't just gulp it down
whenever you please,
but if you choose to
make sure I'm at least your
3,4 methylenedioxymethamphetamine.

And love can't alone
communicate,
but if you choose to
let it do so
make sure you know
all that you are to me
is nothing but
a pump to my ego.

Inner Self

I wish I could explain more the person I was, but I'd rather reveal myself if you ask.

10/25/04

I’ll Never Be What You Want Me To Be, But I Promise To Be Myself If You Let Me Be With You.

It’s always fall fall fall
fall fall and it all!
The strobe blinks
in the place of my eyes.

P A R A N O I A

--------Love is a bloodstain.
--------Passion is an infatuation.
--------Friendship is a constant learning.
Can’t we have them all?

P A U S E

A girl is simply a girl.

B E A U T Y

Why do you deny your own
being?
Call me hedonistic, bohemian…
I’m free to wander…

P R U R I E N C Y

Your innocent smile,
Your confusion,
You know I’m
Empty
but so beautiful,
You’ll want more, more,
I’m endlessly giving.

M O A N S

I’ll leave as quickly
as I came in, so
I’ll come back just
as soon.

N O T H I N G

Your tears in vain
water not my absence
but the person you
wish I were.

Past In Present

I saved them all.
The text messages
(like I could read your
mind at anytime),
The posts on the internet
(I screamed to the world
how much I loved you),
The pictures
(we captured moments so well
they felt like non-moments),
The phone bills
(I loved to see your name
next to mine
in such formal documents).

Your kisses?
They mingle with everyone else’s,
Your touch?
I don’t know, but this girl’s feels good,
Your voice?
I met way better singers than you,
Your writing?
I am too busy with my own,

Yeah,
I saved them all…
And now I need to save myself.

Inner Self

Monologue

The boy, already confused in excess dared to ask him. No, not really. Alright, it is really necessary to ask:
- I don’t know how to live… I am afraid, too much confusion, too many choices, up’s and down’s. I always choose that that exists to crumble.
The old man smiled sideways, raised his eyebrows. He let a small laughter slip, like everything was way too obvious for him, way too clear, overcolored and perhaps he found his childish way of expressing things too simplified and lacking in better grammatical construction.
- Son, you live this way for you live in the past. The past is, for the most part, the only moment in time we know, and this is why we never free ourselves from it. We let it tame us. The past you see, if you fail you fail not in a new mistake, but in the same one. Past/ prison/patterns.
He paused.
The boys’ phone wouldn’t stop vibrating. Work, it must be work. He would never leave unless it was a matter of life and death. He thought more death in this case.
When it stopped the old man carried on.
- How can you dare deny something that you yet don’t know, presupposing that it will thus fail? Simple. Because automatically you transform everything in past, therefore you already know the end. However, young man, life is bigger than present, past and future. The glory is found in empiricism, not in passivism or nihilism. When regretting, regret that which you did not do, rather than that you did. Not because you are justifying things in your head, but in order to gain a different perspective of your mistakes. Regret, for example, not having said “yes” to that which you really regret, rather than saying you regret saying “yes”. The future, just like the present and past, is dubious, it’s uncertain, even those things we already know is unknown in its totality.
He made some tricks with his can and swung it from one side to the other.
The boy looked confused but asked him anyways.
- Are you happy?
The old man seemed unhappy with his question.
- Happy? I am a pendulum boy.
The stroke of mid-day. The elder stood up from the seat he was, across from our character’s side, and walked away. The unemployed boy whose Zodiac was Libra remained perplexed on the amount of projections he made in the universe. The phone vibrating again, his dealer was the only person who could really help him deal with everything around him. It’s too much.

Inner Self

11/20/04

To/The End

Staring at the smoke dissolving through the air everything, in a paused way, makes perfect sense - laisse-moi tempêter -. No cigarettes to fulfill this void. No words from the rest to change a thing. It seems it’s not changing. It’s getting worst, of course, evolving. Not for me. I’m that who chooses not to live a lie, it’s either to jump or to turn my back. Illusions. Maybe that’s what everything is for you. My reality is just as raw as the drags I take.
I closed the door and turned away.

Inner Self

This is one of the poems I actually dreamed about. I dreamed of Baudelaire and him and I collaborated in the piece that follows. When I woke up, oddly enough I had memorized the whole poem.

11/25/04

Lost? Very much found, merci

To find South
without losing North…
comment, comment
je fait a trouver?
Around paranoia,
around spasms…!
Yeah, all of this
is sort of spamic.

Mas você escolheu o jeito fácil,
Então, hey menininha, não chore.

Troublesome is how
you fully believe in
the little stories you tell, how
you’re never the one to blame.
Admit it, not even yourself
know how you feel.

Mais, c’est la manie.

So I have to write
in hollow verses how
we didn’t try, how
we didn’t realize, how
it wouldn’t do, how nothing.

É, não há grande plano,
benzinho,
É do jeito que tem de ser.

Just because I know, I know…

Inner Self

[This was more of a song than a poem, but I obviously don't remember the rhythm to it]
11/30/04


Golden Memories of Past and Future

I wish I were with that
whose sweet verses
I have all in my mind
waiting to be recited,
to make me weak on the
knees, to whom I would
send stupid love songs...
that would make only sense
to me and her.

I search myself in everyone,
I’m empty like that, you see,
I’d show you the world and all
the beauty you possessed, if
you could only believe...

It doesn’t matter,
it doesn’t mean anything,
at all.

Choices are my doom, I always
fall into mistakes, I’m never
afraid to run, I need you to
hold me down, say I cannot leave.

But it’s all in my mind,
all in my fucked up little world,
it will never happen.
Do you think I can have back
the chance that exists only in my head?

Inner Self

Part of
Promises


I thought of myself as
capable of such.
Vows, never.
Commitments, partial.

It seems I’m only in part,
they restrain me.
I cannot see completeness.
How shall I reach it and
still, still be myself?

I promise to be myself.
No, even on that one I have
failed before ...

Inner Self

12/19/04

Untitled – Author with No Name

Depression,
not only visual,
depression like
the gradual erosion
of my being…

What being, after all?

To live = to die
and not the other way around.

Anti-social,
I can’t stand
I cant stand

I can’t
be a column

I cry, cry
and the

r
e
a
s
o
n

so much like this…
far from being
understood.

Your absence,
the riverbed hammering
of “you let me go”
when I ran.
It pecks me like
the eternal crow of Prometheus.

Inner Self

[Sequence of parts of me which are mostly like "dark" secrets, but that I am now leaving open to interpretation]

12/23/04

Maybe
what you really should do
is stick up to your own prison...
My little girl... I’m
about to leave you
for I am merely that who carries the
undying candle
and
deliveries it to your door
but always ought to walk away...
Empty- handed
diminished in spirit and
enhanced in soul...
For what I once had is now yours, my dear!

I walk like a book
my end
my middle
and my beginning already known.

In hope to find another
candle bearer I must wander
on my own.
All these girls… none walk with me.

Inner Self

[As you can see from the date, it is an old poem, however, dealing with ghosts that still haunt me.]

12/29/04

I don’t feel that
man-screaming-in-the-open-field
hatred when I think of her: loneliness.
he screams and the piercing freedom flies,
I
scream and lose myself in
w
a
l
l
s
of her, again.

it’s like the guava fruit fly,
it’s born inside her, it’s part of her.
it is in her like an ingrown nail that
will never,
ever
be removed.

so I used to brag myself,
thinking that she was
what I most wanted,
I was as comfortable as
a cloud couch
from which I fell, from up there I fell.

and by only desiring her
I let not that others touched me,
I became the most ethereal rock
I ever met,

go figure…

truth is this is my eternal daymare,
reason why I am not scared.

to hell with people-around-me
loneliness,
I want only the Raffaella
loneliness.

help me not to run away anymore?

First Time I wasn't the Poet

She said: when I make love to you it's like I'm looking into death's eyes and then you just make me live again.

The Journey

The Shaman lady said: "if you raise your hands above in the air, it becomes breeze, then wind blowing her spirit to the tips of your fingers. You feel it like swirls around you, like sun rays in the middle of the night. If you close your eyes then, that same wind will travel and find her skin to lay on, if you just close your eyes, there is no way she won't feel you too."

Anticipation

My hand struggles

between fist and

being open.

She's so present

that my hands are

just wanna-be fists,

I cannot

grasp.

Their palms just

naturally tend to face up,

as if anticipating

that her hands are

going to land onto mine.

And how they do!

Choice

And her mind was just like an office: in order to make a decision she had to get marketing's approval, accounting's go-ahead, HR's opinion and IT's last minute reconsideration on the matter.

Epistola

Clarice, it’s either too clear for me or not clear at all. There are days in which I wake up feeling like I have reincarnated. I think “fuck, this is not my life, this is not my job, these are not my feelings”… but they are, aren’t them?
Giacomo, the joy of faith pierces me with its sharp sounds and leaves me to die today, just to resuscitate me tomorrow. Here I appear, in front of thee, wonderful world. Hell.
Woolf, there’s a bestiality in me I keep shackled in my veins, I twitch them, I smile, I watch them throb, I dig my very cave and no one knows, but our thoughts are our greatest gift and curse.
William, let me find the will to keep on flying to be ignorant when desperate, for only sheer ignorance can make me hope for the best, only it can make me calm down, open my sacred book on Psalm 91 and actually feel those words giving me strength. Dare I say, o Ignorance, you make me praise the Lord!
Dear Søren, the emptiness of your “O” has always fascinated me. I look down to my bellybutton, I swear, I tried innumerous times to press it and have myself turned on “happy mode” on “rich mode” on “goal achieved mode”, but there are more buttons in life, in empty “O”s waiting to become the “O” of the Latin alphabet.
Whoever, I wish I were speaking to God.

[Title in the End]

She cut pieces of memories:

Geometric shapes bleeding,

Laughing, feeling, thinking

And wired them together

Into a vest I wore.

These moments of her life

Were to me unknown but

I put them on anyways:

I felt photographs

As much as I felt

Her breath heavy in my mouth.

So we danced like nobody

Could tell how connected

We are

And I spun past, present and future

In endless ballerina's spinnings.

So we sat down on the floor

Like nobody could tell our similar tastes

And I dove into her voice

About stories of each little piece

Now in me hanging.

So she took it off me

Like nobody could tell

We are in

Love

And I understood her better:

We both got naked

(And I wasn't scared).

- The Fashion Designer

The stranger, the difference he made, he will never know

The man in the subway
smiled at me:
he knew my smile was
safe and serene,
he thought I was whole
and upright,
and just because he thought so
I started believing in it too.

Choice

At the restaurant she said she's afraid of missing out on things: she wants everything at the same time, I told her
"well, try eating rice and beans with sashimi and hamburger all the same time. Bet your favorite dishes taste delicious now, huh?"

Love Poem

The day transgresses
in a turtle pace
with a monotone
and automatic beat
to it
(could that possibly
be my heart?)

I’m moving but
I’m frozen,
I’m speaking now
but all this speech
could just be a recording
(I love fooling people,
especially myself)

I miss you, I miss you
so much…
I’m colorblind
and pale without you,
my dear poetry.

Love Poem

I write to self-punish,

I don't write to self-punish,

when I work out,

I make sure my body aches,

aches until I can feel

self-punishments

of fat, bone,

muscles and sweat.

When I eat, every bite's

a calorie counted

and when I swallow

ingredients are well known,

when my stomach is empty,

its growl is my self-punishment

of how little I have grown.

The books I read, self-punishment

for ignorance,

my openness, self-punishment

for years of reclusion,

my love, self-punishment for my

lack of

self

love;

the girls I date, self-punishment for

loneliness,

the guys I date, self-punishment for

the indifferent and playful girls I date,

sex, self-punishment for making love,

making love, self-punishment

for being skeptical

(and why do I always prove myself wrong?)

drugs, self-punishment for being

way too sober,

music, self-punishment to silence,

loving you, just another self-punishment.

Poets and All

What is it that
inspires us to keep
doing it?
A genuinely
depressed look on that
Hispanic lady’s eyes on the subway?
That 2000-calorie
sub still swimming
somewhere across your butt
and your thick thighs?
No, it got to be that
phrase you read on a silly
high school book, so stupid
and non-sense because all of the kids
burst into laughter…
(well, all except you)

Or perhaps it’s just
that superiority feeling of
being an omniscient
narrator, sort of untouched
and sort of part of it all
but hey, not really.

Why is it that we still
keep doing it?

Seriously, we must be
addicted to it, otherwise
we wouldn’t do it,
for when we do it
(which is basically all the time)
we do it with fire,
with fist and spit,
we cling our jaws
and bite our teeth!

There is no other way we would know how.

Dialogues to Have when You're Letting the Dishes Dry

There are four things I expect out of any relationship. Four? I thought you were going to come up with a 3-thing definition, since 3 is your favorite number. Yeah, that's what I had come up with long ago, for the sake that 3 was my thing, therefore it would have to be 3. But recently, I have to be honest and tell you that I loved being surprised by this even number instead: I surrendered to the new, to the break of patterns and standards, which honestly made me feel very uneasy, as if I had betrayed number 3 I guess... yeah. But then, since I had applied the basic 3 elements that I thought were important, 3 did not feel left out, it was actually very happy when it realized that the addition of another number was going to be beneficial and important for our growth, for us both. Yeah, I mean, 3 knew for sure you are not a heartless bitch who wants to fuck with it so its feelings remained untouched. Did yours too? Yes, of course. And here's where the final element comes to tie together all other 3, for without this last one, I'm just going to be what I have been all my existence: a beautiful and awesome woman, the sweetest woman I have ever met in my entire life, the woman who changed my life! And then that but comes into scene... and I'm tired of buts. Very, very tired. So, here they are: Honesty, Loyalty, Communication and Reciprocity. Was reciprocity the new element? Yes. How can you even start anything without reciprocity? I guess I believe people eventually will balance things out, realize that when you walk hand to hand instead of in front or behind, things become so much more solid and everlasting. But there's a very weird need of being the submissive (always being taken care of) or being the dominant (always taking care of) one. And it's easy to play that role when you feel the other 3 elements are there because reciprocity is so implicit and way too obvious that you tend to forget about it.

Well, I'm never ever going to forget about it again.

Dialogues to Have when You're Doing the Dishes

I don’t really like to write love poems, neither to perform them. She looked at me and smiled. What? I laughed, that nervous kind of laughter you know? Nothing, I just feel all the poems you write are about love.

I felt so naked and defenseless, no wonder why I don’t like love poems.

Cosmic Gate

Oh my God,

everything is so warm:

from my eyes drops of beauty,

I cry beauty,

from my eyes splash of beauty,

from my eyes... I water beauty

moistening my face,

I was my own drops of beauty,

those rolling down my cheeks,

joy and beauty washing down

the cracked skin of my cheeks,

lotuses float on my lake,

there's a small cherry tree above me,

the yellow flower, one on my ear, three

thousand of them by my feet,

I want to lay down on that field of

peace, let me, let me hold your hand

my lemon grass-sage lady, my muse,

my man, my brother, my teacher and student,

my inspiration, the reverberating beat

of my soul.

Synchronicities

We called in sick:

lovesick.

Coffee, 24 hours awake

and counting!

elegant retro bike

found in the trash,

hold my hand,

grab my waist

we're riding to the sand

where our feet touch

the ocean where the

clouds are our shelter

but forget the umbrella

for the rain is coming

slowly, then showers of

alignment with the

universe

and thunderstorm alluring

us to the nakedness

of skinny-dipping,

oh, Govinda, I see

my heart

serene and fast

out of my chest

she holds it dearly.

The sun set behind

the transparent clouds:

it is clear what we are.

Emotional Splatters

Fingertips explode

in splatter of orange

then in yellow-sun then

in electric blue

as they run across

my lower back

(my lover's back)

and back to the top

of my steep neck,

the sheets white

then patterns of

gold and brown mandalas

spread all over them

when I roll over her,

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

splatter splatter

shapes blinking squares

of emotional swirls...

ahhhhhhhh!

How our cells burst into

powder of love and the

dust of energy dissipates

in the air and mingles

with jasmine incense,

our rhythmic

sweat,

our moans percussion live,

your hair the intertwined

feelings now running

through my hand...

Your flower touching mine.

Mirabai, mira

como derretome por ti!

Emotional Patterns

Could I feel any different?

Ephemerality of love

[Heart by resurgere @ deviantart, I couldn't have done a better job ;)]

I do not know why I insist on writing love poems. They are always burned. Words so powerfully diminished by whatever reason... feelings smashed by the hammer of non-reciprocity, implicit thoughts infesting the nest of beauty like cockroaches, the worms make their way deep into the earth of my soft and easy-to-play-with heart, the dark trance manifests its beats in my pulse, my life-partner, she's gone, again.

p0tential

- do u feel the potential of something longlasting and amazingly unique and special happening here? Yeah, but potential is equal to ZERO if you don't put your hands in it (me).

Avocado Mouth

She smells like grass,

earth and rain

in a sunshine day.

She is always singing

to me through her

electrical cords eyes

and talking through

touch and accidental

melting strokes of her hands

(her skin tingles emotions

in my brain).

She eats her avocado with finger tips

and slides her buttery tongue

past her own lips, yeah,

her avocado kiss...

My mind is spinning

like a hoola hoop

all over her waist,

my heart's so loud

she might listen to it.

And if she does

I'll make sure I play all my beats.

(S)urge

Multi-tasking is a Must in the Modern Era

- So what do you do?

- Slash this, slash, slash, slash and slash (all full of herself).

- Oh... and how would you define your work?

- A little of slash, a big part of slash and sort of slash going towards that and slash.

- Oh... amazing... and who are you?

- I/am.

The Collector

(I wrote this poem back in the days when I did not have my chest tattooed, so a while ago hehehe. But I edited it today. So an old pic for an old-new poem. Enjoy!)

.

.

.

You make me touch

your hand for stupid reasons,

you laugh while pressing

my keys,

from my chest gore,

from my mouth filthy smoke;

You came to collect my...

You make me touch

your hand for stupid reasons,

you drink up my patient

and spit suspension around,

from my eyes caves;

You came to collect my...

You make me cling

my jaw for stupid reasons,

you wrap me around the barbed wire

of your warmth,

you kiss me with your teeth,

you wax away my last

hair of humanity;

You came to collect my...

You make me

be in danger for stupid reasons,

I wear the straight jacket you gave me

on our anniversary,

your bracelet stuck to my skin,

the scars close by my forearm

so symmetric;

You came to collect my...

for stupid reasons.

Extra[Ordinary]

I am here

begging for

something extra

to happen,

something extra[ordinary].

In the sky, in the leaves,

in the sheets, on my sleep?

Extra went out

to buy cigarettes

and never came back

to her sweet ordinary.

Hope

I combed my

twisted hair

hoping to

unknot

my thoughts

But my image

reflected on the

mirror

had never

been this dead before.

Modernism

It had finally occurred to me when I got another text: my friends never call. Everything is typed, abbreviated, monotone and intuitive: this is the era where everything is possibly possible.

Oh a text… from one of my friends. I guess it's been two months that I don’t see her… my friend, I’ve been so busy, working like crazy, but hey, we gotta do what we gotta do right? At least now I got some kick ass money… and now what to do, what to do?! I haven’t seen her since last party at Love! And everytime we see one another, we dance… yeah! Our friendship is based on non verbal communication, we just feel it you know? Because the music is too loud, so obviously we can’t really talk… but yeah, so I might buy a new TV with the money I saved! But hold on, I don’t really watch TV. But maybe for my movies, I LOVE movies! But I never watch them by myself because I find it pathetic; I need someone to talk to after the movie. Ah yeah, I understand, too busy for a movie? Well, I’m sure I’ll see you soon!

And if I see her soon it will probably be in one of those random encounters which you act like you missed the person to death but when you really do don’t you express it out, at least?

Damn, everything is so calculated.

Random Thought #3

What's the point of living if not INTENSLY & CONSTANTLY? I feel sorry for those theatrical people who say it was the best time of their lives and they are never around, or those who are always around but are just artificially shallow.

The Girl who Found Cure InTrance

Rays of liquid drums

breeze of strawberry sigh

involuntary movements

of vanilla spontaneity

all over our sky.

I am eating music.

Muscles

tight

against

your thighs

Trance

Beats

Echo

in

me

The water of consciousness

sweating out my pores,

the steps so light

along my path

of endless hope.

I am dancing music.

Sounds of strength

whispering to my veins

"there is always life

there is always life".

We are music,

me and Trance.

Fundamentals of Poetry through a Digital Heart

[Title of my first book soon to come! Actually this poem was written after I started working on my book but I think it contains every single aspect of what my book is about. Enjoy!]

.

.

.

My heart drips
gigabytes of emotional
surreal paint
all over the air
there are non-stop steps
from all different paths
I’ve stamped on,
even from those unknown.
It keeps dripping,
smoke of laughter
and then cry all
those heavy rocks
of pain,
never push rewind,

tic-toc, tic-toc
there’s no time for that
you see, seconds turn
into minutes that turn
into seconds that turn
into days and turn
right here, please,
turn me upside down
then turn me on
and turn the lights off

‘Cause my heart’s still
dripping
a sense of
established
connection
and
data
transferred

‘Cause my heart still
drips.

The Creation of Emotions

2 am.

Should I be sleeping?

Instead I couldn't stop

until I was done,

until the splash

communicated

emotions,

all over the paper,

until forms

blended into

a whole new idea...

The Theory and Practice of Love

[I have over 20 poems I need to post... I just been dedicating myself so much to the creation of a design that I can't keep up with it! Be patient ;)]

.

.

.

I've read so many books,

so many times

the oil of my fingertips

painted Van Gogh

on every header and foot note.

I've read them hysterically so

some words could faint,

so some could be stuck

in my teeth while laughing.

I've touched so many bodies and souls,

so many times

my hands cried

drops of loss and gain,

the same, it might never end.

I've touched them deeply so

some emotions could explode,

so some could build up

like skyscrapers on my tongue.

Have I ever...

Will I ever...

Haven't I already

found it?

True Love Never Dies and Stays Together

[too tired to design something myself, too perfect of an image to bother not being tired to design ;) http://mdaypuck.deviantart.com/art/smoke-7137106]


The flame of love
never burns down:
I lit the cigarette,
passion is ash,
love is smoke,
embracing,
entangled.
Ashtray to dust off
infatuation,
mouth to inhale
what's forever,
our forever,
you like Derrida,
and so do I!
I deconstruct myself
into you, you
contextualize yourself
into me,
I like Jung,
you do too!
How can you deny
bodies moving in sync
(look how easy we fit),
thoughts running through
(perfect timing).
How can you deny
you're the love of my life?
And if you can't,
will you just give
yourself to me?

Secret

Hollow,
I am about
to squeak
soundless shouts
of emptiness,
Hollow,
I'm this
close to
fist, grin,
wrist, razor,
Hollow,
I'm heading,
Hollow,
Low.

I am Lying

What is it good
about it?
I shall tell you
how I write
for people unknown
with such passion
you'd think
we're the happiest
couple
on earth!
How I create rhymes
for endless nights
of crime, so high that
I could never ever rhyme!
How my ink is so
RED
there's no other
logical explanation
rather than
I killed someone!
I know you almost
spontaneously died
out of breath,
out of words for
those verses.

But you can't
be a poet
if you can't lie,
and I lie,
like no other,
in the end,
what's a circus
without a magician?

Natural State of Freedom

I tripped on her,
I fell on you
In #M27

How louder touch,
Lips, eyes, breath
Are
Louder than
My thoughts
Of tripping on
Her and falling
On you

Fearing not
My natural
State of freedom:
(Flip this 90ͦ CCW)

The city, the buildings,
This sidewalk, you are,
We are, all one,
The lights, the rotten smoke,
The piss and trash,
That lovely grass,
You are, we
Are all
One

Arms open to
Freezing wind,
Chest upright
To the uknown

Did you say forever?
Ever lasts all seasons
Not only Fall.

Dear, who would die
To have the courage
To live like I do?
And who would
Kill for a change?
Who dares to
Live for
Heartbeats
Pulsing sun rays of
Alive alive alive...

In my voice
Baby
(that I don't speak)
In your voice
Baby
(that you tremble)
Can you tell?
There's love there
Can you tell?
Love
Live
Feel
Free

Ihre Energie. Meine Energie.

Please, read the following for this text is the first of a set of 2!

[Lots of photoshop later... I finally was satified = ]

Introduction:

Lately I've been writing less to say more. People are like "are you in lack of words or something?" I suppose they think "is this 6-line thing really a poem?" Well, I'm always trying to say something, even when I don't:

Energy She There Me Here Me There Blush Stroke Smile Forgetit Don'tforgetit Myex Yourex Youandme? Anotherdrink Sit Play Music Talk Poetry Feel Feel Feel Reason Reason Reason Reasonandfeeling? Opposites Complementary Zodiac Ascendant Surprise Notreally Synchronicities Fuck Coincidences Balance? We'retrying! Cheerstolife Cheers Tomeetingyou Movies Trips Parties I'mlosingmymindstaringathereyes Touch I'mreallygonnalosemymindifshejusthappenstotouchmeagain NO IDEA Wish Wish Icouldtellher 12:12 Makeawish: Rain Drops Fall... I gotta leave before I fall.