Play it slow-
not for romance,
but because the strings are blistered,
and every note splits the sky
with fire.

Stroll through the panic,
it’s routine:
duct tape on the windows,
radio on low,
a list of missing birds
tacked to the wall
like fallen saints.

You said you'd carry me,
but the world’s gone grey,
and the olive tree’s
just smoke now.

There’s no audience left.
Just wind
and its thousand-watt warning.

Still, your spine curves to the rhythm
like a fever dream from Babylon,
hips like warning sirens,
ankles sunk in ash.

I want to understand
what we ruined,
but only at a pace I can stand,
only with eyes closed.

There was a time
we dressed like lovers.
Now it’s mylar blankets
and filtered masks.

We knew the promise;
we broke it anyway,
above it,
beneath it,
inside it.

Someone keeps whispering
about children,
as if hope still blooms
in poisoned soil.

Play it slow,
with bare hands if you must.
But don’t pretend this isn’t a requiem.
Don’t dress it up in velvet or vows.
Just let the music float
and burn,
like everything else.

Éramos aturdidos mozalbetes:
blanco listón al codo, ayes agónicos,
rimas atolondradas y juguetes.
Sin la virtud frenética de Orfeo,
fiados en la campánula y el cirio,
fuimos a embelesar las alimañas
cual neófitos que buscan el martirio.
En la misma espesura se extraviaba
la primeriza luz de nuestra frente,
y ante la misma fiera, reacia y sorda,
cesaba nuestro cántico inocente.
De aquella planta que regamos juntos
eran cofrades la senil vihuela,
los pupitres manchados de la escuela,
la bíblica muchacha que adoraste,
los días uniformes, el contraste
de un volumen de Bécquer y Fabiola,
la soprano indeleble que aún nos mima
con el ahínco de su voz pretérita,
y el prístino lucero que te indujo
al apurado trance de la rima.

¿Qué hicimos, camarada, del tanteo
feliz y de los ripios venturosos,
y de aquel entusiasta deletreo?

Hoy la armonía adulta va de viaje
a reclamar a una centuria prófuga
el vellón de su casto aprendizaje.

Mi maquinal dolencia es una caja
de música falible que en lo gris
de un tácito aposento se desgaja.

Y el alma, cera ayer, se petrifica
como los rosetones coloniales
de una iglesia con lama, que complica
su fachada borrosa con el humo
inveterado de los temporales.

We are
Living life
Old
And young.

I am ten crows, twenty-three starlings,
one tree, a world of racket, every dusk that ever was.

I am a holy heart four angels defend,
other times I am nothing but flesh and fingertips.

There are four seasons, three necessities,
two sides to the moon.

The window has eight panes;
I am in them all.

Healing doesn't come from
revisiting a wound

It comes from releasing it

I could have known you
But I wasn't myself
A book far from view
To be left on its shelf
Forgotten memories
Of what could have been had
Out of place reveries
No more dreaming to add

I don't know who you are
But I tried to learn
Afraid to go too far
In the distance I burn
Out of nowhere and back again
Another friend lost
Let's meet nobody then
Make sure no one is crossed

We are the same
Just as everyone else
We keep things tame
Lest we fall as ice melts
And drown in the expanse
Of the void between souls
Timidly yearn to dance
With our own kinds of fools

I've lost your voice.
The world has gone silent.
All I hear are endless
echos bouncing from the walls of my mind.
I only wish to hear it
One last time.

perhaps it isn’t right
but i needed God not in hindsight
nor footprints in the sand
I simply needed your hand

I remember the pain—
knowing that you spoke lies,
controlled me with fear,
told others of your sins
while painting me as the villain.

You broke me
over and over and over.
I flinch at hugs.
I cry with loss—
loss of my heart.

You broke me.
I am barely a person,
shaped by the pain you caused.
I nearly took that final step

because you needed control,
needed to lash out, to hurt me.
You told others it was me—
that I caused the pain you inflicted.

You paint yourself as a victim.
I barely survived.
You continue your actions,
wallowing in false sympathy.

I bare my pain
through my poems.

I have only time and dreams. I do not know how much more time I have,
but I do know that the time I shall have is, pardoxically, timeless, as are dreams. I shall use the time I have left to continue to dream--to dream not
about the impossible, but about the inevitable. I shall dream about caring
instead of uncaring, of helping instead of hurting, of loving instead of hating.
I shall dream of a world of peace, a world on which all the billions of human
beings come inexorably to realize their innate worth, their inviolate sacred
spirit, a moment in the not too distant future when all will not only join hands, but also join hearts, a spiritual ecology that will complement a climate ecology.
Instead of self-aggrandizing, we all will be accruing love--of self, and therefore ineluctably, of all other creations on Earth. At this moment, our
world is turned inside out. Our "values" are convuluted, contorted, twisted.
The world is presently contolled by inimical forces that bring torture and
terror to Earth, that think weapons and wars are their their sole prerogative.
But Earth's destiny negates this notion. This is not just my time and dreams, but the time and dreams of all. And sooner than later, the time will be now
and the dreams will be manifest.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks

Metà segreteria
soviet o comitato
ai cani sciolti, al volontariato
ai centri sociali, agli operai
a chi non molla mai
a chi fa opposizione
anche se non è inquadrato
dalle direttive prese,
dalle telecamere accese.

I want relief from this pain
I want relief from this pain
I want back then ,,,
to the first, lucky guy I was,
I want years before
Having fun and ever it felt like
If a pen and a paper smooths out my loneliness
Then I seek refuge in them

❝Isn’t the ending of a lovely story supposed to have all the bad guys die? For example, you, or me…❞
there won’t be anyone left to tell the story.

You told me you missed me,
but that was a lie,
because the only thing you missed,
was the ability to play with my mind.

I've been seeing more shooting stars lately
Lately as in the past three years
Maybe it's because I'm out here
At nighttime, slowing my car down on a country road
and turning off my lights
So I can see the sky better
Making sure there aren't any stars blazing in my rearview.

Look at me then,  
Look at me now,  
A lot has changed,  
I've matured somehow.  

Some things remain,  
Like my love for all,  
Look at me then,  
Look at me now.  

Once depressed, wanting to die,  
Crying each night, searching for why,  
Answers eluded, I wandered in dark,  
Except in God's light, where I found my spark.  

Now happy as a dog, florricking in fields,  
Joyful as can be, my heart freely yields.  
With a smile on my face, I invite you to see,  
You can't miss God's love that shines through me.  

Look at me then,  
Look at me now,  
Younger me would be so proud.

Not by rules or timelines,
not by others' silence or advice.
I will carry this grief as I must
slowly, fiercely, or quietly
but always in my own truth.

Look at me
Do you see me?
No you don’t
I’m always the heroine
And never the saved

Heavy is the crown
But I still make you laugh
Doing a silly little dance
And all I am is the jester
And never the empress

Hey, look over there
Now you see me
Oh, now you don’t
I’m always serving up a trick
And never, never the truth

I am partying hard,
every day and every night
at the Festival of Poetry
- the festival of my life.

My bracelets are
flickering in the moon.
I am singing and kissing flowers,
they are making me bloom.

I am drinking the sweetest wines,
that have ever been made.
I am ecstatically dancing
with naked silhouettes.

I am partying hard,
every day and every night
at the Festival of Poetry
- the festival of my life.

Spilling the ink of joy
until my very last breath.
There won't be any hangovers,
any post mortem regrets.

Espantajo,

I kissed you
but my lips knew no remedy
for you, standing cruciform
  in a desert wind.

Espantajo,

wrapped in
  cornhusk feathers,
no sky knows you.

Espantajo,

I could not move you
from your place in the night.
   For you,
all things rise in the west
sleep in the west
make love in the west
and die in the west.
   You married a northern woman
like un espirito muerto
   appearing in a photograph.

Espantajo,

Face away from my house now.
I have blue glass
   bottles sleeping
in the branches all night
   to snare spirits.

Espantajo,

The same old wind
rattles you
   and you call it talking.
Silencio, ****** scarecrow.
If you can't love,
can't move,
can't hold a woman,
   what good are you?