Listening to the quick, dark, trembling silence (which I do not wrap more to defend myself, but the load center and the heart of heaven … to let him speak, write him even on hot bricks in the ardor of his words left there to dry, any day – and I talked to him.
And I hit him, I looked
[are still able to laugh for tenderness, are able to cry, to scream, to breathe clean air].
The gentle curve of my thoughts start coming slow to the sky, the whispers of the night lost, then found in glass bottles scattered who knows what continents.
They are the exact center of my world – you write ravening, reduces you to the bone: I write about me, not for me. I write at the top of my mistakes, those of others, suspended over an abyss from which I struggled, laughing, laughing to tears – not knowing how to read that even in the name of Poetry unscrupulous mine, atrocious absences.
In the return to life, that is imperious wave of a sacred sea.
Writing is the pivot of the lives of those who do not surrender to the evidence of dreams, the concepts explored in the hearts of the people, the weaknesses of the divinity.
My God is writing.
And it is sharp, strident, hot under the skin
[overwhelmed with emotion, split in two]
… and filled with hope.
January 8, 2012