Agna

To those who loath treason in a deliverance, and find deliverance in a treason. * * * one thing always follows another... like a thread of pearls promptly locked on a chain, or like the rushing colors on your silk scarf where the peacock-blue flows into the diamond-green... or like the countries on your globe, both attached and disjoined by the borders... so they all: the lands, the pearls, and the colors --- they come, and they rise, and they reign, ruling us but eternal apprentices of the ultimate, treacherous art, the art of letting them go... Agna, Jul'98

Before you know it...

life is a razor blade cutting deep through the flesh that begs it not to... but before you know it, life is a mocking bird flying fast from the flesh that begs it not to... still, before you know it, life is a mocking blade and a razor bird watching the flesh that begs it not to... not to cut not to fly not to watch -- and all that before you even know it Alfter, Oct'97

The valley of death

In the valley of death, on the sand, there we stand inclined but not fallen just yet -- there we stand on the sand, feeling slowly that the sand is too quick -- there we stand... and pretend that we still have to speak to the hole in the sky... to the sand, rich and yellow like a lion skin, though no lions ever made it here, leaving all that to us as we stand on the sand, and imagine that we are still alive in the valley... Alfter, Oct'97

The dance

shall we dance there, dear? -- with our eyes closed, and our hands clenched together -- where there's only a step between us and eternity; where the expectation of pain is twice as frightening as the pain itself could ever have been; where stars are too heavy to cling on to the heavenly spheres; and they turn into sudden snowflakes on a chilled April night -- shall we dance there dear? from the brink of this morning till the end of the time that has been foretold, in your hand, on a stiff motel card: ``just gone down to make a phone call -- back in 10 min.'' Alfter, May'97

A great escape

it begins with a soft tap on the shoulder, so sudden all the more as it's been expected for so long: just like the feeling of coming back to a place or a time you haven't visited yet; just when it's a bit too strong to resist stepping into an enchanted circle -- so it begins San Francisco, Apr'97

Los sueños de la reina

otro tinto, por favor, otro tinto -- while the queen is asleep, fast and unalarmed, in a slow awakening of the streets that came down with siesta -- treating a late fever of the September sun with the ruby blood of tintos... otro tinto, por favor, otro tinto -- while the time has not yet rushed to its end, moving everything beyond the simplicity of afternoon dreams... while the queen is asleep, blessed and forgetful of all that has not, and will never come... Toledo, Sep'97

Town clocks

what do you want? tell me what do you want now when it's midnight, and all the town clocks are ready to strike... enshrouded in pain, it sweams in your veins: it's just a poisonous thorn that you hide -- with every tide of your blood, it goes deeper inside. run through the streets; tell me your dreams, before the needles point to the sky, before the tide returns, and takes us inside... hide me again: such is the game of silent strangers piercing your heart. you see them coming for you from afar... so, tell me what do you want, what do you want now when it's midnight and all the town clocks are ready to strike? Alfter, Aug'97

Silence

the ninth wave has just kissed the shore, and the sea knows i will beg for more, tearing out the heart of my unconscious pride. the sand strips will wrap it around, with my soothing dreams and folly doubts -- but the sea today is too blunt to let me die. and the castle stands, and its gates are sealed; and nobody wins, and nobody will... the prophets claim: it's written in the sky. i confess my sins to the book of sand, but the surf conceals all the words i've found, leaving me to the muteness of my crimes. and the ninth wave has just kissed the shore, and the sea knows that i'll beg for more, tearing out the heart of my unconscious pride. and the sand strips will wrap it around, with my soothing dreams and folly doubts -- but the sea today is too blunt to hear me die Charlottesville, Jan'95

The void

Another sun will climb in vain across the airless sky, with nothing for the wings to play, and nothing to defy... I'm holding to my breath, beyond the point -- what used to be a sacred faith is just another void. Your distant gods will cry no more for all, who tried to breathe. For all, who prayed to shut the door, the distant gods will weep. A desert rose has pierced the faulty soil... Where sands were drifting with the winds, there's just another void. And voices fall behind the words that never meant to come... Behind the eyelids, lights are blurred... and wounds are getting numb. The time has run its old and cunning ploy... And all we ever get to hold is just another void. Socorro, Feb'96

Jane

jane -- i wish i was your echo to steal your words and bring them back in speckles just like the jigsaw puzzle that we've made of all those days and fortunes and mistakes remember, jane? you thought i was a wizard i took it on just as my way to please you and rocks had turned into the finest gold but you were told that all my books were sold and jane -- you called me up that evening you said i lied you said i had deceived you how could i raise my humble voice? you'd made your choice then jane -- i left your tiny town i sought no one and no one have i found for there's no hope i could escape this little truth: that jane -- i wish i was your shadow to cast myself upon the roads you ramble and when the night returns i'd let it through and from its gloom i'd softly speak to you i'd tell you, jane -- i'd seen all seven wonders before i reached a kingdom far beyond them and there they taught me all the sacred magic arts but jane -- they wouldn't tell their secrets unless i'd traded something that was equal i paid the price with my enchanted heart 'twas all i got 'twas all i truly got... now jane -- i wish i was your echo to steal your words and bring them back in speckles just like the jigsaw puzzle that we've made of all those days and fortunes and mistakes Charlottesville, Jan'95

Keeper of the Reunion Tower

As the distant world spins around, disinterested, she passes the view once in every forty and something minutes... And the water in your glass dries but too fast for you to hesitate any longer. And as the world is readying itself for yet another revolution, you ought to make up your mind... For she's going to pass your view once more and forever. ...and then she would say she was born in Arizona, and was raised there in a noname town, just to make it to the keeper of the Reunion Tower, for the summer that has chanced you in. And then she would tell you she liked watching meteor showers, from her noname town, just where they were seen the best -- just where you're heading, as you're heading West... And then, then she would say something else -- when it wouldn't be needed already -- at the dawn that will part all of us: her, and you, and me, and the Tower. Dallas, Aug'95

The taste of mate

In devotion, this town keeps breathing the air of the Christmas... And so bitter to taste is the mate that's made after midnight... In the chimes, there's the winter wind stuck in a hurry... On the foothill of parting, Canopus burns down in transfixion... Every road leads so stubbornly southward, till sunrise... Argentinian zamba stands still on the whitened sand dunes... And we dream of a touch of our lips, so forgetful... Unfamiliar stars shield ourselves from the skywardly abyss... An abandoned height falls asleep, midst the rustle of wingspans... And the town keeps breathing the air of the Christmas devotion... And the winter has tangled the chimes with the wind, in a hurry... In the skywardly abyss, the stars shield themselves from the unknown... Standing still on the sand is the zamba of white Argentina... In transfixion of parting, the foothills are burned by Canopus... Till the sunrise, the southbound roads will wait for the stubborn... Yet, we dream of a touch of our lips, so forgetful... And so bitter to taste is the mate that's made after midnight... Socorro, Dec'95

Southern star

Foreseeing the rise of the southern star swiftly disguised by the city flames, there where nothing seems to hold to its place, holy men run in deserted streets, leaving the churches unlocked, hoping that this time around they would never come home. The wise ones shuffle their sacred scrolls; the foolish have fallen in love; the elders will never admit that they've heard enough of the chimes that are claiming their distant toll of the sighted ones, who stand on guard for the blind, who have gathered to hail the southern star. And I beg you to tell if I'll be this time with the foolish, the blind, or the wise, in the city of yours, where the southern star does never rise... Socorro, Dec'95

The land of drought

I want to tell a simple little fairy tale about us walking slowly in the rain, disguised behind the masks so innocently frail, and followed by the shadows of the prey... There where the streets are sinking into the starving sea, we would come like a sudden rainfall that no one had foreseen... El Universo tiende al olvido, but leaves a trace in every broken stone, in every word she spoke before the face of gold, in every drop of rain she prayed to hold -- though rain does never come into the land of drought. The rain does never come into her land... The Universe extends into oblivion, and takes away our mutual disguise. She hides her cross among the stones she'll leave me on, despite it can't be hidden in her eyes that rain will never come into the land of drought. The rain will never come into her land... I want to tell a simple little fairy tale about us walking slowly in the rain... And there where the streets were sinking into the starving sea, we could have come like a sudden rainfall that no one had foreseen... Alfter, Nov'96

Tiles of Texas

... those marble tiles flash back at me hanging seemingly amidst of nothingness some five miles above them, behind the three inches of crystal clear, feeling--proof glass ... those marble tiles of Texan fields turn themselves gracefully into a ballroom floor, as I'm craving to dance out the unspeakable yet... that is: after the glass has been molten, and each of the tiles has exploded into a plentiful, irrigated Universe -- will there be a home in any one? Albuquerque, May'95

Yucca

...remembering a lonely spear of yucca piercing its way through the pale death of gypsum sands -- mindlessly. for you know: from every single cosmic point of view, and on each of the four hands of Vishnu, and out of all sense that we've got in common, there would hardly come any proof in piercing -- not that there's ever arrived much to be proven, but... Cincinnati, May'95

In the eyes of Ether

In the eyes of Ether, painted shadows listen in the moonlight to the silence of the Vedas. And as the wind dies out at night, the pain stands still. In the eyes of Ether, nameless lovers die of every poison they had the courage to discover, when across the bridge the shadows rise and whisper their names. In the eyes of Ether, frozen fires twine around the swift line from obsession to defiance, as the claws of stars are drawing blood from the heart of the night. In the eyes of Ether, velvet curtains descend upon the stage, although nobody would be certain if it is the time to die, or give a round of applause. Alfter, May'97

On the bank of Ebro

on the bank of Ebro, plus thirty in the shadow feels like a point of no return -- particularly so, since there seems to be nowhere to come to, not to say that there is really no one to cover the way... Logroño, Sep'97

Goddess of laughter

...and i wish i was living in a strange looking house, with all of its walls facing South, with an inward--bent roof that prevents stars from drowning, and with rainbow--shaped doors all around -- so that the goddess of laughter would come... she would walk through a door of that strange looking house, in a peacock--blue dress and a crown; then she'd sing to herself of the times we've forgot, and i'd pray all the rest of my gods that the goddess of laughter would stay... Alfter, Dec'97