I look myself out from inside a volcano of truth and judgments and crowns of thorns and singing the exclusion drink it in large gulps cups of ancient bones in the coliseum that is the world.
I enter inside me until i cant breathe. I want be able to watch and not shake with fear, poetry that is sovereign and loving mother of this tired old body, so old that every lash of the leaves on the trees, I tremble with terror, too.
I paint myself red. Lipsticks onlipsticks and blood that has suppressed the pain of the body and mind. on About what I ‘ll drink with my sisters to disintegration of premature stars.
Smothering of inertia and death. In my head, are nothing more than a misplaced comma in the definition of vulnerability.
Looking for the smaller me, and kicking. Drowning in the full moon. Tasting my own vitality throbbing that twists and an opal guns and powder exploding in the moon’s womb.
I enter inside me breathing stillness.
There are red trees with trunks colored sand. A well, stones crumbled – he calls me so much, for so many years, that the navel hurt and it pushed
it becomes a cancer to expel. Petals and rot and sweat. Vanity. If i had to describe what my mind smell, I could say incense and wild flowers.
Strong enough to make me nauseous. An old pain that has never dozed cut my wrists and rejects them as food to the lens clouds darken the sky, petals floating in the totality of the stand still.
But if I stop, does not mean i’m dead. it is the wonder of being: flying, I feel the body hovering in the air and suspend me softly. It is not death, no, that’s life, a white veil and soft that collects the scents of the earth, there, next to a tree trunk that has seen the blade fall on his own life: cut, now is perhaps the most alive of all.
I see her smiling at me and crying is so heavy that I can see my face contort in millions of particles of nostalgia and love and itchy hands, forearms of paper, and my heart is all the ink of failed poets … every person living, I feel them deeply sting and leave indelible something within me – but it all disappears, is nothing, in the melody still, to me that still fly and still I’m not dead …
Slender hands and white rise, and the air becomes hot wax, but not enough to burn.
And I leave behind everything else.
The weight of being in the world and the world itself. Love, sadness. The idea and the thought. Vanishes in a movement of the air: it shakes the trees and their voice is an slow echo and low, a buzz that give me the creeps between flutes and grass and wind.
Everything is gone from me. I am empty – but mine is an emptiness sought by the crying of the seeds planted and bloomed in winter.
And she is here. Ethereal like the idea that I have of her, and maybe it’s the same of thousands of years ago: as easy everyone might think, an idea does not change, but becomes opaque in a flicker of emotion away and more is the distance, the more I love her.
I do not see her face: I veneer in two, her hands kill me with love – that love is always feltand never faded, a love for which one lives and dies.
As I before observed me, I look at her, listening to play me like a thousand strings of violins and bells hung from the highest branches – does not speak, do not breathe, its color is white-consuming and if I could choose how to die, would die from her, from feeling too.
And I say, flying, “You’re a disease from which I would never heal.”
Disease and sought to reinvent myself and simply look inside. Because this is her – and nothing scares me more.
She is my life – and now she gets up, my crying that makes me fall lashes one by one, with fingers suspended in the song that my soul evokes.
She kisses me. I let myself die. Petals swirling and I with them, collapsing, the fall of all things. And then: “Transplanted in yourself until you understand.”
And the music stops. Cease trembling and crying. There remain only the trees, the grass, the well. Some purrs – along with a howl that does migrate away the clouds that has covered the sun before. Cease the navigation of my spirit in myself and I get up, and do not feel the bones, not a beat, nothing, just an absolute peace and sore hands. Because poetry is to let me invaded, its looking me fromoutside: drowsiness of a part of me that dies when I do not write, and the need is stronger than anything else. And its the rain of falling stars in a clear soul, that live and I feel it kicking writing.
its be empty to let me fill of life. And then – I continue to observe … still.