You can keep the hidden treasures.
Look below and say:
these are my feet;
this is the Earth and
below
the substance
of year after year.
We spent days naming clouds.
There were shapes of animals.
Look up. You can
hear yourself blinking.
There is nothing here except this.
It is true it all comes back to
this hand,
these growing nails,
hair where there was
Giving, I think the poet meant,
without expecting anything.
Not even a response.
A line would be enough.
Like an emergency measure.
Throwing a message
(you know: in a bottle).
How quiet, sometimes, the sea.
tranquilo,
remember
two parallel
lines
get together
in the infinite.
View on the lake:
a town at the foot of mountains surrounds the lake.
Brush drawing in grey wash and graphite.
The fog changes with the heat
like the copy of a watercolour,
(the original an unidentified piece)
like morning breath in winter
or the resemblance of a simile
Como
Gloomy day. Ceaseless rain.
Walk like a blue ghost,
covered in a poncho:
it makes you look like a tired,
retired superhero.
The rabbits must be all
hiding underground:
they know better.
I go from one concrete building
to the other, change titillating
screens a million times.
The post office makes me wait
and 68p go away on a piece of paper
with the face of a future king.
The red totem is there,
still, opening its mouth.
I wonder if everytime
someone dies
there are minimal,
hyper-brief instants
of micro-sadness
in all the nights of the world.
Most of the times, of course,
we don’t even realize,
but some other times,
the next morning,
we may be able
to understand that
little unexplained sigh,
that unseen flashing in the sky
the night before.
LoVe
is...
Hopeless Romantics meeting for the first time
2 legal documents (marriage & divorce)
Between 2 people
Something strong
Something weak
Only in fairytales
A signal of hope
Anger and rage
Unbroken
Beakable
Fakeable
forever
Chance
Fate
Where will i go when i die?
I believe i will cease to exist
No memory to live
No body to to breathe
I will go nowhere
You can believe what you want
That i will go burn or fly
That i will be born again
You could tell me you cant go nowhere
And i will nod my head
You could tell me to change my answer
And i would say reincarnation i guess
However, i will add
Sleep is mini death
No certainly you will wake up
But are you afraid of sleep? No of course not
On my way down Kutner I spot the old
ladys with cracked hands who sit every
Sunday and chat over tea and donuts.
I take a left on Marshall Ave and
around the corner passing through
Weston. As I see the construction
workers carving wood plates imagining the splinters they went
home with that day.
Lastly I'm here.
The market.
As I lay My gallon jug on the counter I
see the young board cashier who
seems indifferent to my smile and
thanks as I leave the shop.
I'm tired of meeting the same people in different bodies
when you happy, you make raging words
when you focus, you make blowing words
when you sad, you make whining words
when you mad, you make striking words
when you dream, you make hopeful words
when you feel unloved, you make hopeless words
when you shut, you make thoughtful words
when you so in love, you make hearty words
when you serene, you make beauty words
when you desperate, you make rough words
when you brave, you make huge words
when you fear, you make honest words
and when you decide to not survive, you make your last words
and that's when i started to write this series of words
the night wind told me something
in the fork under the yellow dull lamp street
he said to me :
"your cold is not my cold.
you made it."