In Trance

Piano Solo

2011-12-29T19:20:00.003-05:00

it was morning
and everything was
going to happen
accordingly:
brush teeth,
wash face,
make coffee,
drink coffee,
enjoy coffee,
pee,
wash coffee machine,
change,
make the bed in 30 seconds.
go workout out.

it was morning
and everything
happened differently.
my mom never calls at 8 am.
The voice in the other side
numb and apathetic "Your friend passed away".

I brushed my teeth,
the taste of the news nauseating,
I washed my face,
one, two, three times,
I made coffee,
extra strong, thinking it might help me,
be a little stronger too,
I drank it up,
salty of tears in little swirls
of my own denial, had it really happened?
I detested that taste,
so I peed,
sure my pain can be flushed away;
I left the coffee machine as it was,
half full. half empty.
I changed, into something,
I'm not sure what,
and threw the cover over the bed,
as I walked out, to go running,
as fast as I could.

Strangeness & Charm

2011-11-10T09:34:00.003-05:00

Ran in the dark
dragging the heart of the park
on my stiff ankles.
I leave traces of it all along,
an alive artery, the art of living
a dead weight I'm carrying around.

I hadn't been brave enough
to sweat poetry in a while:
It reminded me of my
rebellious days
When I thought I could
Ride on a bike, run and
Swim while playing the poet...
And boy, I could!
I could have a spark of innocence back then...

An idea of it wrapped in
muscles burning,
A verse rushing through blood
Pierces and begs to be built,
One more verse in exhaustion

The pleasure of friction
against the ground
makes the hair in my forearm shake

and my legs quiver and I pant
and gasp and throb and

Don't give up,
for God's sake,
keep looking straight ahead, squint the
eyes of your mind and I promise,
I promise,
You will see the finishing line.
Because everything ends.

The breathing of the trees
and flowers rushed
into my nostrils and
landed on my tongue:
It tasted like an omen
to an early summer.

The darkness of shadows casting
and my own shaped a sense
of why I was still alive and
running like me and the
park were one.

In the dark I ran,
like the devil chased me around,
I ran in white, in the
heart of the park,
to be brave enough
to sweat poetry.

.documentary.on.being.pop.

2011-09-12T09:54:00.005-04:00

A miracle
when I opened
the bags of chips:
they cracked
barbecue remorse
in my metallic mouth.

I ate them with repulse
as the skinny bitch
across from me sang
some idiotic pop song.

I thought if I could make
her eat her own stupid hair
she'd come to realize
it's hard being fucking pop
and it's easy to have
a cool hair.

So I skipped my stop,
went to the MoMa instead,
pretended Andy Warhol's
Exhibition was still on.

I commented with Andy
about this guy's photography,
some Boris Mikhailov, probably
very pop because he's
from Ukraine and man,
nobody's more pop than
those people who come
from nothing and feel
like
nothing.

Right? So I ditched Andy,
because he was a fake pop,
he spent too much time
with his hair and he knew
nothing about pop,
this is why he was crowned
the father of Pop Art.
It's always like this.

But Boris, Boris understood
pop to the core... What it
really meant to be pop.

So I went home and listened
to Manson
and designed a seamless
pattern
all'Andy
just to be pop.

the Play

2011-09-06T14:32:00.004-04:00

[original pic here]

My poetry
became a stripper.
every word's a spin,
every line's a show.

I gave it a $10.
then a $20.
then nothing at all...
the gentleman
next to me then gave it a $100.

My poetry
became a prostitute.
every metaphor's a moan
every rhyme's an extra charge.

I visited it once.
Then twice.
Then never again...
The bi-curious lady took a picture of it and left it by the night stand as she was getting dressed.

My poetry

became a photographer.
every theme's an angle,
every poem's a reflecting moment.

I let look at me it once.
I opened myself to it twice.
Then always:
conceptual shots
were always my thing.

My poetry
became an artist.
every change's meant to be,
every full stop's a comma.

I wrote like that often.
I felt it all even more often.
Then I collected
pieces thinking they made myself
whole.

The Unlist

2011-08-29T15:27:00.002-04:00

I made a list of my worst
romantic combinations.

She was number one
My best friend was number two
You came third

I hope neither of you get offended
by the order that I chose
you can fight over who's
the real winner later
or who's the most jealous one,
who's best in bed but worst in dialogue,
who cooks worse and who drinks the most,
who exercises less,
who fantasizes the most,
who ultimately would drop all of this the first
for any other hot designer like myself
over a heartbeat that pounded
slightly faster

After this list, I felt no need
to write one about my very best.
Not because it is filled 1st, 2nd and 3rd
place by the same heart but
because a list you make when
things just don't mean anything.

Still Untitled

2011-06-24T08:26:00.006-04:00

{pic here}
[find poem video in the end]

I've been meaning
to write a poem that
starts like this:
the best orgasms
I've ever had,
I gave them myself.

And another one that
somewhere in between this line
and that one
it would talk about how
wood can bend and how much of
Tolerance you've deforested

I've been really meaning
to edify such beautiful

sky-scrapper-poem

fearless and just... Real.

That would make
You
wonder things like
why do you abbreviate
such meaningful terms as
public display of affection
into something equivalent to
ASAP?

Seriously... how can you treat
love
like
Chinese food?

What I've been really
meaning to do is
come up on stage
and have you look
at me,
like you wanted
to find out why my poetry
is coming out of my mouth
like this.

so rare.

like I wanted you
to eat it, to digest
these uncooked emotions.

Speaking of rare emotions,
I've been really meaning
to finish that piece
that went this far:
"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.

Cloud Generator

2011-05-05T22:19:00.006-04:00

I feel this massive...
this massive massiveness.

I slept for 9 point 30 hours.
I feel so insomniac.

I looked at myself in
the mirror when I slept walk
and swore to myself I would
not be like that anymore.
I swore to myself like
that actress
from that commercial.

I got 1/5 things
done today.
I'm assuming I should I include
1 as being alive.

A man in the subway
played the harmonica.
it reminded me of old days of
Alanis Morisette
but nobody gave a fuck.
and quite frankly,
neither did I.

I skipped Trance on my iPod.

I fantasized and I fantasized,
about her telling me over and
over again "you are so childish,
you are so immature..."

I swore when she said
"they are gonna pick you.
You and your design"

I felt this
massive...
massiveness of being
exactly who I had always
dreamed of.

So I dreamed about
about how my
poster saved the world and
about naked men that looked
and felt like women,
and it made me wonder...

when did you diverge?

when did you choose?

when did you stop choosing?

when did the massive become so massive
to the point that I don't feel it anymore?
to the point that I choose
to make it

so light

to make it

everything

to make it

myself.

.paint.

2011-03-28T21:16:00.008-04:00

[breathtaking work by here ]

Words
drowning in paint:
there goes
"I".
there goes
"thought".
there goes
"much"
and "chance"
and "over" and
"less".

they are better off
in acrylics
than in my lips,
at least for now.

You see,
I'm unfortunate
enough to be a poet
not a painter.
rather than combining
pigments
to create meaning,
vague meaning,
the modern-art type of
meaning,
I am forced to invite
each and every of you
into the nakedness
of my monocromatic
straight-to-the-point skin,
just like that.

Wouldn't it be great
if my poems
were just splatters
which you'd all be
staring at right now?
Big splatters and
a tiny purple dot on a
porcelain white canvas.
You would be coming up
with absurd ideas
of what I meant.

"she must have been
pissed when she did that",
"I think she meant to
talk about love"
"I don't think she's the kind
that speaks of love"

Instead, I have to stay
here, before all of you,
and be brave enough
to put these words
together that mean

chest.

they mean

dream.

they mean I am so

tired.

they mean a stranger made me

smile

the other day.

They mean

it is ok,

it is ok??!

to let you all

in.

and it's ok if tired

means not giving up

of being

so helplessly strong

all the time.

they mean I won't be

judged

if I mispronounce something,

they mean I don't really

care

if I mispronounce because

I know you will find it

lovely
anyways,

they mean I am so

giving

I better

stop

giving,
before there's nothing left.

Air

2011-03-19T01:17:00.001-04:00

[amazing picture here ]

what's within
a rock that lives
by the mouth of
the river?
what's within
a rock that's
been kicked
for so long
the only taste
in its mouth
is pure gray
asphalt?
and what's the difference
between a rock from New York
and one from Barcelona?
I mean, if there is a very
noticeable difference between
a New Yorker and a Barcelonian
there must be a deep difference
between the rocks too.
I must only imagine the difference
must lie in what's within.

what is it that is within
an oak tree whose roots have
traveled further than
any ship or men that
my eyes have seen?
perhaps there is a massive
structure, like bones,
muscles and skin, but
made out of wood, within.

what is within any
pulsing heart that
makes it more than
just a muscle?
more than just reactionary
to chemical elements
dancing to their routine
and more about
our choices and expectations,
desires and lessons,
pauses and actions?

if I asked any heart
what is it that's within
they might have
different answers.
they might have
no answer at all
for sometimes what's within
can just be so in
it knows no other
than to be inside.

so what's within
words that are thrown
like boomerangs
waiting for their way back
to their source, to their
essence...?
at some point...?
the journey back
may never happen...
they may crash into
another word-boomerang
with such force
that they no longer
possess the ability
to think they
can fly... and so,
let it go.
it's by acting with
wings that they fly.
but perhaps it is not just
the boomerang you
choose to throw
but also how you do so.
then there might be a chance
of an encounter which
the two will touch
and revolve around
each other...
but what's within
these revolving doors
I can assure you is
mere repetition.
so I can only imagine
it is also about
choosing when to
throw it, and where to.
make it a Time
when you're not looking
and make it of the destination
more about the journey
and less about the final stop:
most times it's not the one
we hoped for,
and most times there isn't
a final stop.
and what's within
a final stop
that makes it so different
from a comma?

setting an intention is really
a very powerful thing.

you see, if you read
this poem rather than
listened to it you'd
notice after every full stop
there is no capitalization,
as if my stops were
actually not meant to stop
but just slightly. pause.
so commas, really. not stops.

it must be that then, what's
within a full stop: pauses.

so I paused by a comma
to think about
what is that's within
this air that makes it
melt in my lungs
like caramel fudge
I tasted out of a stolen kiss?
what makes it be everywhere
and crawl so gently
across our skin?
do you think it was because
of Air that you and I met?
do you think that it was
within this Air
that our moment became just ours?
that our moment meant
more than just a rock,
a tree or a muscle,
more than our entire
record of conversations,
poems, texting, chapters,
stories, History...
that it took it first
steps into a certain shape
and into something
unexplainable,
an Idea that has no Idea
or an Ideal that followed
its own Ideal,
a Path that because it
followed itself it
unfolded into something
new, it edified itself
into this.
"this" which I
cannot explain.

I can only believe
it was because of
Air
that you and I met.
somehow you heard
sounds that are unheard
if not listened to
what's within.
and I think you have
what's within
because of Air too.

Shuffle

2011-02-08T00:03:00.007-05:00

[original images here]

Me and girls.
Me and girls
are like music.
But not just any
kind of music.
If you're ignorant
or almost ignorant
about electronic music
I can explain you
a thing or two and
that is that me and girls
are like electronic music.

But not just any
kind of electronic music,
one that implements this
technique to its every single beat.
And for me it's always
more about the technique
than the beat.
This technique that DJ's
make use of,
like us poets do,

we make people fall in love
with whatever is
that we're saying.

Loop.
That's how they call it.
Sometimes I find that DJ's can be
more poetic than us,
how they say Loop
instead of "banging
hammering repetition
of a predictable
pattern so many times
you would believe it's
different".

I tell myself
"it's gonna be different"
and "it's gonna be different",
"it's gonna be different"

"it's
gonna
BE
different"

I say it once, twice,
three hundred times
equal amount of weekly
texting between
You
(there)
Me
(here)

it's gonna be different,
Raffaella, she made
you dinner, she took you
places, she promised she would
take you more places,
you felt like she really,
really meant these lines
she wrote, you wrote
both of you writing.

You felt like this
never before,
you thought you
did before but
now you really do,
before you didn't,
feel this different,
feel this naked,
completely vulnerable
vs venerable
and sure so sure
it was going to be
different

now

it is like my iPod music
I've got so used to.
they are like my iPod music.
2010 songs.
and 1 yet song with no loops
to be discovered.

differ(ent)

2011-02-08T00:02:00.000-05:00

[original pic here]

Inebriated
but not like
wine floods
any type of

Rationality
in me
instead
I
Think
I
Think
so much
I feel so sober
it's absolutely
unjustifiable
these things
I feel and
honestly
don't care how
much of it
you feel too

just because
it is so

Real

Real
for me

my thoughts
I can't speak out
I don't
have to talk
we're commenting
on blinds that are
familiar to me
and my thoughts
travel so far and
in between the
cracks of light
that break,
in every corner of
your blinds.

Blinds. I shut
my eyes to see.

Whitney talks and
I pause to breathe,
to let go of your poem
for a while,
to let it walk by itself,
it almost says "Raffaella,
Raffaella...", but I can't.

Turn back and react
as a normal Raffaella would.

I gotta let it walk and
do whatever it wants,
fall, play, jump,
cry, smile, look at me,
be proud of me,
hold me.

Yeah. I will.
Let it go.
Wait for it.

the pragamatism of touch

2011-02-07T23:46:00.004-05:00

[Pic by Eugene Buzuk]

I thought of you
now and I
touched myself.
Placed my hand
down there
and breathed in and out,
my other hand
pushing against
my skin even more
I pressed it in
and out.
the sounds so hollow,
my stomach,
emptied of food,
bathed in Mallox.

If only you really knew
how poetic I really am...

I thought of you and I
touched myself.
Back strategically
bent, great architect,
lips gently
bitten, sensual whore,
eyes that roll like
dice, the bet I made:
if I couldn't get a model one
like you.
So I did, touched both of
my hands: high-five to me.

If only you really knew
how poetic I really am...

I touch myself even when I
don't think of you.
your tongue
right past my
iPod playlist.
Speak right
through me,
speak right
through me.
You said you
can't believe
a word I say

If only you really knew
how poetic I really am...

I touch myself
in the subway while
the undying lines
shuffle
songs
that remind me
of how I am
touching myself
in the subway because
you barely touch me.

If only you really knew
how poetic you really are...

.the.dualism.of. Dali.

2010-12-30T14:07:00.004-05:00

into the
deep divine
of circumstances
carnival has never been my thing
but then I was born a Brazilian
and had been to Venice.
more than once.
so how to explain...?
the allegories I've embodied,
the parades I've marched,
the parties I've taken part of,
the discontinued rhythm
of events resounding
multiple natural
abortions of perfection.
sometimes being pregnant
doesn't mean you're a mother.

if only you knew
how the porcelain
cracks hints of flesh
that's been there for so long.
flesh that's stronger than
any steel or armor I
attempt to wear,
more precious than any of
the poems I've written...
more there than anything I am.

if only breathing was enough
to deconstruct the over-thinking
floors in this building,
I would take a deep breath and
gently exhale every particle to
its newest remodeled rooms.

nothing's darker than a room
where there are lights, off.

if only heartbeats equal
quantity of times I've felt
this way, then my heart
has beaten once.
strong, pungent and warm
by a Japanese drummer.

because it is only the absence
of the present presence
to bring the present back.

parachute

2010-12-08T17:19:00.003-05:00

when we squint our eyes
to opposite
complimentary
colors falling hot
and cold,
ah, those snowflakes
on a summer night
on the tip of
our tongues
to the bottom
of our stomachs.

[Pic by merrie, manipulation by me.]

defying poetic norms

2010-12-03T12:48:00.002-05:00

...I had a poem in my mind with a very precise final stop. she then crossed past by me and it all turned into comas, and comas, and comas,

paper, pen and to be continued

2010-12-03T08:56:00.002-05:00

... and when it can't handle me, I know my poems always will.

Braveheart

2010-11-29T01:47:00.007-05:00

by my pillow,
laced top borrowed
from me last night,
although my own,
smell, smell of skin and
on my sheets
hair longer than
the ones in my head and
motion and bodies,
waves that make
the design of my cover
dance
and I'm so brave.
because nothing really is my own.
and I knew you'd get it
when I said and repeated it.
and I'm late, I know, but really
you're always the one who's late.
so I believe we're actually on time.
and I'm so brave
when I play you those songs and
am absolutely ridiculous...
I'm so brave
because good poems come in parts.

[photo by V-Imagine ]

zero weight

2010-11-25T19:09:00.003-05:00

good poems come in parts.

Texto Para Ser Lído & Queimado

2010-11-25T01:00:00.004-05:00

[Sessão Baú - Revisitada]

A mão segurava a pena vermelha e branca, hesitante, vai e vem. O foco se afasta, o circulo de luz se abre e vejo que aquela sou eu, sentada, dialogando com o papel, em branco.
"Os muros como projetos", "Van Gogh", "Isto me faz feliz", "único", "especial" e frases que continuamente chocavam-se umas nas outras, resultando em partículas de emoções arrítmicas mas sinfônicas, e mais sinfônicas do que um simples tum-tumnar.
"Você deveria ter escrito" disse-me Baudelaire vestindo apenas um samba-cancão branco com listras azuis. "Não. Gostaria que ela lembrasse daquele dia quando... ouvisse o nome de Van Gogh ou vestisse pela vigésima segunda vez, azul. E não que ela por um acaso encontrasse o dia-papel em sua gaveta e o relembrasse. O dia-memória, o dia-voz, o dia-cheiro, o dia-tato... esses são os verdadeiros dias que se abraçam feito ondas..."
"Acho que vou tardar para aparecer nesse cômodo de novo. Obrigada pela minha dose de vida."
E inesperavelmente ele terminou o cigarro que nem ao menos vi que havia começado, sorriu e saiu pela porta.
Mirei o papel e lá estavam minhas palavras exatamente como as havia fluído: ao seu redor meus muros deixam de existir, como se tivessem sido apenas um projeto de construção. Feliz. E isto aconteceu de uma forma especial e única, assim como o azul de Van Gogh.
Vou esperar que ela quase desperte, para lhe sussurrar dia-energia.

aquela

2010-11-25T00:52:00.003-05:00

[Sessão Baú - Revisitada]

Às vezes ela vestia regata pensando em camisa, mas mesmo assim a vestia. Assim, por comodidade. Inúmeras vezes comia sorvete pensando que deveria comer comida. Certamente era mais saudável! Ouvia rock quando o momento pedia clássica... e é aquela clássica História de que nem sequer escutamos a nos mesmos. Perdeu as contas de quantas vezes tocou bateria como se fosse piano e digo-lhes, não se pode bater nas teclas e nem sequer tocar as pontas dos dedos na caixa, nos tons, no bumbo e no surdo, acho que ela deveria mesmo ter ficado surda, pois jé não era a primeira vez que ouvia essa mesma historia e via os padrões se repetirem e fazia exatamente n-a-d-a para impedir...
eh... o problema eh quando beija os lábios alheios como se fossem os dela, dela, da ela, daquela... mulher.

[Picture by complejo ]

In finity

2010-11-23T00:51:00.000-05:00

tech.no.logy

2010-11-19T03:23:00.002-05:00

controlo-te pelos dedos
e então, ahhhhhhhhhh...

dualism

2010-11-19T02:24:00.001-05:00

Choro ao ler Anatomia Cardíaca, N.
Talvez porque tenha tentado eu escrevê-lo o dia inteiro. Talvez porque acho que tenha perdido uma chance. De ter batido uma foto já não-amarelada. Chance de trocar o som monótono de metal que bate e bate e bate até escorrer faísca. Ou Talvez por achar que nunca tinha tido uma chance. De encontrar essa coisa que corrói o peito, essa que visita Malarmé e Valerie a doidado e aí inclina a cabeça para trás e viaja... Ou porque tenha dado uns pegas. Não no sentido literal, infelizmente, e não! Meu charme não é barato, não é barato não, rapá!
Seca. Pós-moderna pro caralho.
Quero ser o abrigo, a casa, o tapete, o chá, a única mesa no fundo do bar e quero saber rimar, mais complexamente, pois assumo-me complexa e detesto complicação e sou chata até não poder mais mas você é tão mais chatinha!
Minha, foi.
Perdi a noção do Português. Por que quis o novo verbo, os novos pronomes, a nova sintaxe, as novas normas, a mais nova semântica da tua pele.
Estou cruzando uma linha que não devo. Fixo-me num ponto e atravesso.

chapt I

2010-11-16T23:03:00.000-05:00

and this never-ending poetic desire for halves!

sight

2010-11-12T21:04:00.007-05:00

[start from solely LISTENING (do not watch this montage, it sucks) to your heart beats... and the music... and us - JERICHO ]

I hear your voice calling out to reach me,
then all is calm and clear.
I feel no pain when you hold me,
pull me in and draw me near.
I see your eyes of hazy blues but oh so clear, sincere and true.
I taste the air around you and I feel brand new.

Come fill my senses up with you,
You've turned the jaded into new,
Come fill my senses up with you,
Love would be senseless without you,
Come fill my senses up with you.

There was a time when love was blind,
love lost and all at sea,
Love came in dreams and waves,
came and went away from me,
All forsaken, all forlorn, all mistaken, feel no scorn,
Then you pulled me from the darkness,
And now I see things new.

Come fill my senses up with you,
You've turned the jaded into new,
Come fill my senses up with you,
Love would be senseless without you,
Come fill my senses up with you.

no pé do ouvido

2010-11-12T20:42:00.002-05:00

detesto essa vontade que não cabe em papel...

whiSper

2010-11-11T22:55:00.007-05:00

desaprendi a falar a língua que antes falávamos. Desaprendi a escrevê-la: os novos capítulos só naquela de sotaque. Naquela dos sonhos e realidades... vários e várias por essas bandas. E você tentando, darling. Achava divino como havíamos mudado: de cidade, de vaidade, de viadagem, de comunidade e até de autoridade divina! Impressionante feito anjo que caiu de para-quedas que não abriu.
Certas coisas permaneciam as mesmas e eu achava divino como havíamos ficado: pra titia, no mesmo barco, sem coragem, a pensar, a parar, a imitar, a falar, definitivamente, outro idioma. A linda teoria do filósofo vs a bailarina despirocada de realidade que sentou-se para tomar chá com Buda e quis fumar com Vinícius.
tempo, tenho hoje em dia medo desse tempo que nos junta feito osso no músculo que não desgasta, que trabalha, que quer agarrar com toda a força essas partículas que por mais banho que tomemos, ou mãos que toquemos, não se vão. Não se vão, não.
creio estar aprendendo uma outra língua...

If You're a Bird, I'm a Bird

2010-11-10T06:42:00.001-05:00

"Because she strove for it every single day she wouldn't take anything less than that perfection."

...finally...

2010-11-02T22:43:00.003-04:00

"nothing is ever casual to me because I just got this deep capacity to love."

El Perro del Mar

2010-10-25T23:00:00.002-04:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5OScxklFZ4U

Happiness won me over
Happiness won me over
Happiness won me over
Happiness won me over

Won't come for those who wait
Won't come for those who pray

Happiness, happiness won me over
Happiness, oh happiness won me over
Happiness won me over

Won't come for those who wait
Won me over
Won't come for those who pray
Won me over

Will come for those who love
For those who love

Deep in the heart
I know it is love
It is love that's the answer
Cause love won me over

Deep in the heart
I know it is love
I believe it's the answer
Love is the answer
Come with me over

Lady of Justice, Unfolded

2010-10-15T17:55:00.002-04:00

R: I just had a whole brow and I'm almost at Webster and for some tingling reason I wanted to text you while I giggle and jiggle with the trance in my earplugs.
It's so funny... I'm having these narcissistic moments as I'm walking lol everyone is looking at me with passion and desire... like this woman just now looked at me, up and down and slowly bit her bottom lip. I felt it in the bottom too. Very bottom. Even knowing I'm clearly a top who enjoys variety and being put into place.
Censure me if I'm getting too sexual.

C: Whole brow? You know I was typing as you wrote that, and now... Well, I just don't know what to say, lol. Did you read your horoscope?

R: This Chinese man on his bike just grabbed his bars. His little rice and shrimp boxes swinging around: the pendulum of my life. The repetition and endless patterns of shyness before the new. Where's that woman who can handle who I am in my purest essence, a woman who doesn't find in my perfectionism the perfect excuse not to give back, to abuse the generosity in my hands, to exploit the depths of my emotions, to enslave me to an eternal unbreakable pattern...? HA, I'm feeling so Shakespearean! [I think she asked me if I had read my horoscope?] Wonder if she'll be all about Derrida and will deconstruct me in every line and touch, she'll read my chapters as if every single time was the first time... TO HELL with running. I know she's a marathoner, she's got warrior legs and a mind control that goes beyond the finishing line. But she'd rather walk by my side. She's not a libra but she's got that poise that not even I can hold so well...

C: Hey, my mom just looked at me and said: "I don't have a whole other world here. No one's contacting me!"

R: I swear C, hope is a fucking curse and a blessing. Nietzsche strongly advised me not to lose hope. If he didn't why would I? My horoscope. Yeah. It says: "LIBRA - Considering all the changes you've been through lately, it's fitting that the new moon on the 7th falls in your sign. Since a relationship abruptly evaporated in May, you've been quite a rollercoaster - and it's time to not only get off, but to also walk the heck out of the entire amusement park. Your ticket to a healthier, happier life? It's not unattainable and it's not being held by some grumpy ol'gatekeeper. It's free and right inside you.".

Libra

2010-09-29T09:07:00.004-04:00

My hands are heavy
and tire-skin.

I carry that weight like
a Northeastern Brazilian woman:
strong to the very end, why?
I don't know, she doesn't either,
but we both are.

We accept the inevitable.
Nothing is permanent.
We accept it so well I start to wonder
if we have become
too wise
or too cold.

I carry that petulant pose of
a Paulistana who knows better
than fuckin' Wasteland Northeast:
overachiever, the way to be.

We accept nothing less than
perfection.
And when you deliver less,
well it's time for you to leave.

My hands are white
and porcelain-skin:
I doubt anyone's worth
of holding them.

memories of my present

2010-08-25T00:20:00.005-04:00

"It's funny, I feel like I've watched this movie before. Like I know the ending of it."
"What's the end?" I asked, almost instantly regretting it. The answer was a smirk and a look so still I saw my own apathetic face mirrored in her eyes. I knew it had to do with me. To do with her. That's what she believed. I believed it had to do with ending.
It's ironic because just a minute before this whole conversation stroke I had wisely mentioned how things never end, they just change, like a cycle that needs to be completed... I think I had finally experienced what the root of ending meant vs. my Pollyannaistic vision of ending. Its originally meaning states the opposite side. And there was I. Watching my end from the other side of the street.
I thought of how we were sitting on a bench. I remember writing you a poem where the bench was just an excuse to put into paper my thoughts for you. Sheer poetry. I don't really remember how it feels. Poetry. Or you.
During the conversation each phrase started to slowly fill my lungs with liquid emotions. Soon ideas rushed in so violently I am surrounded by water and I am drowning. I am blundering about the memories of my present. I am in and out. I am completely in, who am I fooling.
I have no.
I.
air...
CPR kit: 8 missed calls from you and your texts of where r u? or when r u coming home? or something like you cared for me and not who I was with. They reminded me why I am writing this. I swear, fate is just inevitable. She would think my introspectiveness had to do with the anticipation of me understanding her ending for this movie. But all I sank into was how you were not part of it.
It is indeed inevitable and it's crushing my every belief as my waiter crushes that juicy orange for my OJ and I just swallow it. I dare not taste it. It stings my palate, it corrodes my throat, the lack of understanding.
There is nothing deep about this little girl.
And when the clock ticks within me, nothing, nothing about that bench can be saved. And there was I, back to the same side of the street. I thought if I just talked to you about it, things would make more sense. So I did. I said à bientôt to her movie, at least for a while.
I am reading this to you and anticipating my fate. Anticipating you'll lose all the science and defy the gravity of things. So you tell me absolutely everything I don't want to hear. You wear your white coat and speak to me about how nothing is guaranteed and how what matters is just now.
Like I said, absolutely nothing I wanted to hear.

Role-play

2010-07-12T12:41:00.004-04:00

I wonder how she tastes
past her waist,
how her red hair is
much more red due to
the desire to commit
adultery (if I was married).

I wonder how her lips
suck onto the tip of
my tongue: she corrects my English,
and how she moans when she forgets
the possessive pronouns.

Do her marks and bites
bleed differently for those
she doesn't kiss?

"And when you kiss me,
I wonder you're just
not fucking me."

"And when you kiss me,
I know you're just
not fucking me."

I blink the circumstances away,
it must be temporary,
and we breathe it all
in and heavy and
out and light because
otherwise we'd be dead.

Literary Asthma

2010-07-12T09:41:00.007-04:00

[original pic here http://browse.deviantart.com/?q=choke&order=9&offset=168#/d2d462v - a little manipulated by me].

Death to the poet.

Half words in between

ashes of strangers'

sweat,

there,

lies her tomb.

The crumbling

cultured posed

falling off

a white horse,

its hair fluttering

with the breeze.

The poet has no air,

cum

Pale & in Absolute

porcelain.

The poet is dead.

Blood

until the color red

read finally dead.

One less poetential.

What's the use of sun

when it's always covered

on clouds?

second chance

2010-06-20T21:46:00.003-04:00

[ pic by http://browse.deviantart.com/?qh=&section=&global=1&q=mud#/djggfo ]

On muddy
bed I think
how to change myself
with hands of charcoal,
your face on my walls
with lungs of smoke
puffing the call.

Shadows creep up the roof
into pulsing veins,
the streams with moss
across my arms
follow spiderweb tongue
hanging from your branches,
and I watch,
I watch close
the fangs upon my skin
breaking rib cage free
to dust only
and soft
and nails
piercing
perfection across my eyes,
eyes drowned in powder
and suffocated by tears
of constant lingering
in the house of absurdity
where I was beheaded,
where I rescued my own.
I, and no one else.

Orgasm

2010-05-28T09:55:00.003-04:00

I was enjoying my tea.
Then you rasped my throat,
razor-blade-mint-leaves tongue.

My breath is fresh
like mold.

My bile, I'll be here for a while
growing hair under my nails.

Fermented emotions
pouring on my glass,
you're nauseously drunk,
there is no turning back.
Inebriation with my fingers
inside of your flesh,
anesthesia of sensations,
sweat perforates your chest.

You tear my humanity,
I tear your skin.

We grow ants infestations
as our home atop.
The circle must
never stop.

The Gold Miner

2010-05-24T09:43:00.001-04:00

Heavy around my neck.
The gem turned into stone.

Coffin Memories

2010-05-18T08:51:00.009-04:00

Now I often think about it.
When the taste of coffee
splashes bitter sharp grains
in my mouth
(how words amputate
my desires once seen
in a glimpse of innocence).

There is no room for innocence
underneath the armor.
There is no room for belief
on a 8X10 mindset.

It starts to make sense why
I am drinking rusty water,
and how I write "poetry"
on toilet paper, and when
my skills became paralytic.

Now that I often think about it
I revolutionized my own vocabulary:
my favorite prefixes are -a and -an:
amoral, anesthetic, apolitical, asocial.

Now that the feeling is so knotty
I wish choking became hanging.
Now that God stole my tears
there is only penitence past the doors.

Science Class: Winter, 2010

2010-03-02T13:42:00.002-05:00

I pick you up
with no warning.
Wonder if you pick
my in between the lines up.
You pick up honey crisp apples
from the arteries
of our green love.
I pick up electric flying strings
from the top of our intellect.

Galactic crunchy & Tingling bonding

Bulletproof

2010-02-26T19:35:00.004-05:00

Start of conversations,
industrial beat,
words,
Gothic cathedrals
scrapping my dignity.

the strings are loosened
and tightened up
to my neck.

And I don't expect to feel regret from this.

My taste,
better,
your queers,
cheap imitation of reality.
My scream,
My cream,
better.

I don't expect to feel regret from this.

Your walk so pop,
your studded tongue,
your skin breaking leather,
where haven't you been?

Don't expect to feel regret from this.

My hair,
pulled,
you,
quenching and starving
twisting and knotting.

Expect to feel regret from this.

Down the throat
two or three pills,
full pupils = bulletproof.

Regret from this?

Criticisms burning
on the same pace as
your cigarette
and you're
careless with
the ash.

It's everywhere
regret.

The Corner Table: The Less Lonely

2010-02-26T19:31:00.004-05:00

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.

Reincarnation Sucks

2010-02-14T13:35:00.010-05:00

Rotten_____________ The Catholic Bishop
eyes made___________The land owner,
of petroleum_________ one of those
dirty spilled__________ royalty wannabe
oil. ------------------------------------------------- over blood on battlefield.
___________________pigs.

Garbage teeth,
the smile of a
traitor,_____________ Bless me
a quick stab__________ for being
from behind. ------------------------------------- aim for the kidney.
__________________A SKEPTICAL
__________________vegetarian.
Breath of poison,
touch of leprosy,
you sure stink of
Black Plague. ------------------------------------- corpses eater.

You Do but You Don't

2010-02-14T13:18:00.004-05:00

My days
the stops
uptown
downtown
going express...!
I repeat,
express going
downtown.

Hey, I have
an unlimited
ride,
that means
all I can do
is just ride
and ride...

How many transfers
do I have to keep
making?

But if I get off
I'm going to have
to walk...
(the purpose of
the ride:
lost)

I must have gone
through the whole

alphabet
&
numbers

and still,
I'm left

still.

Hide & Seek

2010-02-09T13:53:00.003-05:00

Our memories:
individually
wrapped.
The finest
artisan
chocolate
I savor

slooooooowly.

They melt
on my tongue.

Coloring

2010-02-07T20:47:00.002-05:00

Nordic forms
on their own,
finest birch-cedar
lips
and travel in
pentatonic scale,

the remote sound
of rain
condensed on
the subway windows,
the smoke of continuous
fried noodles reminds me
this is reality.

As far as my
shut eyes can bring me,
as far as my
iPod can make
the crowd move
with a little heart,
that's where, that's where

mud and dew make love,
oak and sage intertwine,
sand and blood,
mohawk and bud...

and Nordic forms
on their own.

the Violins Operetta

2010-02-07T20:40:00.001-05:00

the Poem
was born
in the morning
and was dead
by dusk.

about a poet

2010-02-06T13:22:00.000-05:00

it's said that a poet during abstinence periods embodies the persona of a blind. It's swallowing adrenaline from shot glasses when you're clearly not a drinker.

Nausea.

Dizziness.

Altered state.

Arrhythmia.

Control. And a new form of art is born.

Shuttle Bus

2010-02-06T13:10:00.002-05:00

@ Grand Central

Where it's impossible
to avoid
time.
The cloth covers
a mini newsstand,
time for that
Indian to return to
Palace-High
(in the Bronx)

Why am I laughing?
I'm the one killing
time
side by side
hand in hand
with a forlorn
instead
of bed
(the officer: NO SLEEPING!)
(the bum, jumpy: yes, SIR!)
(me, I just looked up: I'm clearly NOT a bum, pig!).

I could have been,
in the last minutes
of a New York
to be missed
in bed.

But time's implacable.
The clock keeps
chopping.

I also had better to do:
I listened to music,
with no lights on.

She had better to do:
she was in bed.

Road Accident

2010-01-04T18:28:00.004-05:00

My relation
. s h i p s.
to a one-way
highway
and I'm
driving to a
dead end.

My feelings
the pedal
at full speed,
your responses
the rusty
break
failing
corroding
any chance
of airbag.

Flat tire
a couple of
swerves
and two round
white lights:
C.r.A.Sh.

Love and Communication

2010-01-04T18:25:00.001-05:00

My girlfriend:
Your next poem is this poem.

You’re selfish.
You’re incredulous.
You’re everything I wish I didn’t understand.
You’re everything I should run from and you inhabit my space.

Get the fuck out of my osmotic bubble flesh eating virus.

Selfish.

So selfish.

Start your poem. The last words to the end of mine.

I am dried up in the gaze that slashed and cripples my skin beneath this down comforter.

Fucking parasite.

AND WHEN YOU YOU YOU READ THIS….

It's not you.

It's not the form in which was meant for you YOU.

You are all of this and non of this because the problem…Watson.

It's this.

Im the mirror.

Myself:
I am the mirror.

But the reflection to it is shattered and makes me nervous.

The glass? You broke it yourself and you’re asking ME, ME to pick them up?
Darling, pick them up yourself, then we’ll talk.

Then I’ll really be incredulous to the idea that you cannot see.
Then I’ll be an atheist amongst all these people who can only follow and follow and numb and numb and run run run…

I ask myself if you don’t ever get tired of running… ‘cause I’m here looking around and I don’t see any medals, or trophies. But hey, it’s your high.

Poem

written in one fine punch in the stomach.

And I vomit nothing.

Too High to Title This

2010-01-04T18:23:00.000-05:00

I dreamed that
I was high
and never woke up.

Bliss. At all times.
This dude walks up
to me, his facial
expressions are of
pure apathy:
“Raffaella, your
best friend died”.

I laughed.
Not because I thought
he was joking,
but just because.

I walked away
and cooked myself
scrambled eggs
on a 2-week
dirty pan.
Amusing is how
eggs fry and
have these tiny
little explosions
within.
It’s tragic but
inevitable, and
let’s be honest:
what’s tragic
is usually very,
very funny.

So I laughed
one more time.

As I sat down
to eat, while
pushing aside
piles of clothes
I barely recognized,
perhaps because
I’d forgotten to
do laundry or
because they were
strangers’, I stopped
to think if I hadn’t
to be somewhere
important, like work.
Not work, dumbass,
you’re dreaming,
you don’t work in
your dreams.

So I smiled because
I did not have to
work and I laughed
until my lower back
cramped at those who had
to work.

Ha.
Amazing.

I questioned,
like a good follower
of Descartes , if
I was dreaming or
was high or wishing so
bad I was high that
I had made myself believe it.
If the later, then I could
turn my thought into a religion!
Picture this slogan:
“Work your mind in
such high degree of
meditation to
reach the state of
Cannabiska”,
which would just be a
fancy Indian word for
“being high”.
Incredible.
I would be the
modern messiah.

So I laughed again,
and spent the rest
of what you people call time
laughing until I slept
and it all started again.

Emergency

2010-01-04T18:21:00.000-05:00

Diagnosis:
Severe inexistence of any existence aggravated by chronic osmotic lethargy.

Prognosis:
Metastatic and illogical repetition of circular patterns.

Cause:
Death by caffeinated heart.

Resurrection:
Attempt #1: Corporal heating through human touch. Failed.
Attempt #2: Manual blood pumping on heart. Failed.
Attempt #3: Verbal encouragement by masking a shitty life with empty promises and hope. Failed.

Hour:
6:06 pm.

The Magician

2010-01-04T18:19:00.000-05:00

keys
to my own
prison.

heavy,
in my pocket,
lethal,
to the definition
of home
on that book,
sitting on the
top
shelf.

the trashcan
gobbled them up.
(I starved for air)

repeating verbatim
of my broken years:
It’s anywhere
and everywhere
and I found it
nowhere.

Mrs. LockSmith
across the street
was touched,
she said she never met
someone who could break
into so many locks like me:
with no particular
Key.

I lacked in keys,
I lacked in better references,
I lacked in height to reach
still I entered
still I understood
still I looked from above.

Hairdresser

2010-01-04T18:17:00.000-05:00

I combed my
twisted hair,
hoping to
unknot
my thoughts.

But my image
reflected on the
mirror
had never
been this dead before.

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

2010-01-04T18:12:00.000-05:00

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.

Religion Class, Fall, 2009

2009-11-06T10:58:00.005-05:00

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]

2009-10-26T00:47:00.006-04:00

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

2009-10-26T00:22:00.004-04:00

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

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

2009-10-22T06:29:00.004-04:00

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

2009-10-20T00:18:00.006-04:00

[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

2009-10-12T23:10:00.005-04:00

[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

2009-10-10T15:31:00.001-04:00

When I chose

belief

you went for

ignorance.

[Title in the End]

2009-10-10T15:29:00.001-04:00

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]

2009-10-10T15:06:00.002-04:00

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

2009-10-03T21:48:00.005-04:00

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

2009-10-01T22:45:00.005-04:00

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

2009-09-19T23:41:00.005-04:00

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

2009-09-12T00:01:00.004-04:00

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

2009-09-07T22:56:00.009-04:00

Waves lips

and and

sheets hands

Our particles

liquefy

(one)

yet

these atoms

duo-diamond-solid.

The Linguists

2009-09-02T23:36:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-02T23:31:00.002-04:00

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

2009-09-02T23:29:00.002-04:00

When does
love stop?

It never
stops.
It becomes
something else.

inevitability

2009-09-02T23:26:00.001-04:00

my trampoline, fear.

Sanitized emotions?

I pass.

.Deja.vu.

2009-08-29T00:17:00.004-04:00

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

2009-08-28T06:51:00.001-04:00

My trampoline:
fear.

8

2009-08-28T06:29:00.002-04:00

When does
love stop?

It never
stops
it becomes
something else.

Freya

2009-08-25T08:57:00.001-04:00

My poems
in
between
hers

lack in punctuation
the rhythm
we
create

is new
everytime

EXI[S]T

2009-08-25T08:45:00.001-04:00

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

2009-08-19T00:12:00.002-04:00

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

Caught Off Guard

2009-08-19T00:07:00.003-04:00

Thoughts traipse,
collision of
our
parallels.

Admit it.

You were
thinking of me.

Weekly Budget

2009-08-19T00:04:00.002-04:00

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

2009-08-13T21:47:00.002-04:00

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

2009-08-13T21:45:00.000-04:00

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

2009-08-13T21:43:00.000-04:00

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

The Lotus

2009-08-13T21:37:00.002-04:00

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

2009-08-05T08:45:00.003-04:00

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

2009-07-31T00:57:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-30T00:08:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-30T00:05:00.001-04:00

She had a good heart, but she had arrhythmia.

Dans ma Lumiére: The Sentinel

2009-07-29T23:51:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-29T00:32:00.006-04:00

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

2009-07-27T22:33:00.003-04:00

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

2009-07-27T21:05:00.003-04:00

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

2009-07-27T15:12:00.000-04:00

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

2009-07-27T15:09:00.000-04:00

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

2009-07-27T14:06:00.000-04:00

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

2009-07-27T13:47:00.001-04:00

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

2009-07-27T12:03:00.003-04:00

[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

2009-07-27T11:33:00.000-04:00

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 ...