ENCOUNTER

Within you, you see me:
that I can see; and to see that to be me
sits within you to be you and see me
is, I see, whom I see in me seeing you
to be.
That you see within me there’s to be
is, you see, to me, to be within you.

Stolid act – the instinct we have lost

The iceberg became a poet and thawed,
flooding his verses
onto the ocean.

The birds of prey dove for fish
and ate poetry
instead.

None of them were Icarus,
they soared back to the sun and left their sores to thaw into the deep to satisfy the fishes’ thirst.

Ode to Pollock

When I saw a river for the very first time the first varied drive I had in mind was to touch it and feel what it felt like. Matter as I eavesdropped, and so it called, I supposed, water swallowed my hand and I backed out in a start for what was concrete conceived another creature as opposed to what had materialized in my dreams as what concrete might exhibit in its whole aggroupment of solid particles be so liquid just as my solid beliefs liquefied.


Air that I’d so taken for granted, those so many times, from the start, from the very first time I tried to catch the breeze, and breeze concocted concrete in ghostly ghastly feel that unfelt what I would have felt, should concrete have concretized what had so many times, from start, from the very first time concretized what in my dreams, materialized, the breeze swallowed my hand and on behalf of the fauna, the fun of the fling with the breeze liquefied.

Colors I painted in my canvas, my convex lama, complex I flexed and fluxed and fixed and flossed from my mind, minded what mines moved in the midst of mine, amidst my mild concrete among mournful matters I minded, eyes surprised, ice suppressed, I’s supposed but blended in a blind, and a bleak, blunt sir prized, my saliva, enzymes and deaf chimes liquefied.

Blood saw with glee my gutters glare, greased my gross, bereft my bear, this Bear bewitched beneath the rare, bereft the rare bewith the dare, should the black bleach bliss beyond the hair, hair cover, hair decoy, rare deployed, dispatched my head, and my had has that that will ever have, the glee glued glossy within the touch, the touch taught tears solidified, the cry crowned curdled hemoglobin, solid iron breathed, liquefied.

When I first voiced my invoice, a voucher vouched my voice aside, my insound out shrank like skin skeptical charred to chores, to chopsticks catching wet soap, and the rings wrought in my tissue, a canvas issued in my strophed strive against the ears, years past, past in putz, pests imposed, ears against my struggled strive and what I meant went liquefied.

Pangaea

Righteously Wrong

I’m wrong,
while everybody else’s right.
Well, wrong I want to be;
otherwise I’ll be everybody else,
but not me.

Wanna Bees

Wanna bees live in a beehive uphill after you’ve dug a deep void grave beneath the ground. That’s where Wanna emerged since forever, that’s why lava fled in panic through the mountain’s asshole.


Wanna bees buzz till you’re nearly deaf of boredom, but their stings are innocuously limp. They are not exactly scavengers, cuz they have to wait for scavengers to eat up the carcass, then they approach and lick the now almost dry leftover bone. Wanna bees try to fly high speed when they feel cornered, but they tire quickly and they fall to the ground, where most times they are crushed by soles and steps.


According to a handful of biologists who did not make it into good universities and wound up studying these animals in slummy kiosks, they are not precisely bees, and because those biologists are far from being dedicated or accurate they have not, so far, come with a replacing theory. All they came up with is that they know Wanna bees have one and only one talent which is to camouflage themselves and resemble a real bee; however, like cheap chameleons, the effect is ephemeral and they have to flee away, but then they get tired, fall to the ground and crushed they are.


One day, one of those pseudo bees from Wanna got caught up in a glasshouse store where fake plants and flowers were coarsely manufactured. And because their sight is quite impaired Wanna bee thought those plants and flowers to be virgin nature and this was what it thought being happy was, so it finally had found a decent home.


Flutter by flutter, its tastlessbuds started to poke its brain and its plush tummy to dissipate battery acid. It looked around – carelessly, truth be told – and found no fossil to feed on. All it saw were fleshy zombies, at your service. But zombies never die, so it was bound to bee no more.
Out of despair and crappy hunger it dared to try to escape from that dungeoned garden. But the panes showed it the outside, while they kept it in the inside.


Bump after bump on the treacherous blade of glass, Wanna bee was pronounced dead.


The news spread stronger and faster than a horny sex drive, and multitudes came to pay honor to its death. Nevertheless, authorities suspected such relief too good to be true and had its grave exhumed. No body was found, and hopes seem to have beesed away.


If you don’t believe a word I said; go there and check it out for yourself. Wanna is more distant than the stars, but you can get to Wanna in two steps. And you’ll only find s’worms of bees. Err, err. Ahive.

Fishing Cheeps

When I actually saw a fish crying
I could finally tell soul from sole.
The ardor made me fly, the bottom, move on.

Then the oxygen it ate came from its own tears
while my anima fell onto the floor fighting
but the fin made me sole, the tail, shoal.

What's Not

Air so porous that it blows invisibility
Through a hollow whole immateriality
As I touch dry water, pre-fragmented into intact particles
H for horror O for odious, pigmented molecules
Of void reflexivity, tightened together like Siamese grafts
Parted into identical stock and scion, horny cockroaches
Endeavouring to fit
Like a cloned child trying to love his parents,
blinking between doctors, widow womb and widower testicles, and pipettes.
A city of miniature fiords and gigantic atoms
Where one citizen is bigger than the entire land, yet
He pounds on the gilt gone ground which once embraced his feet
Today he finds there no gravity so he satin steps on inexistentialism
And leans on the pleading prayers before he even chews his own meat
He hits upon a raw mirror
Having been its ingredients surfaced on refracted non blossomed bliss
A tongue without aimed lips crafts a homeless kiss
Effacing his effigy from the shell of terror where
Cold cuddles collapse into a placebo tryst.