in october mornings
numb
purple leaves
drift down a little
more fluttering by
angelic winds,
but i could not trace which
node released them
nor the mother stems from
which they unlatched
their mouths
loosening their connection
isn’t it a heavenly scene?
something falling from
huge structure
uncountable,
unseen like god
and inevitable
and when they fall, they
descend
from the middle
of a population,
of hidden foliage in
a garden that’s
still breathing.

Warm mellow breezes brush against my face
The sky turns light purple as the sun goes down
Carmel cappuccino sits on the table
Waiting for me
While a candle burns
Bossa nova music plays
In the background

As the sun continues to drop
The breezes increase taking some of the heat away
The smell of the cappuccino fills the air
As the bossa nova plays
It’s a special time
A time of magic

The poet cannot talk about what he already knows.
Northrop Frye

light splits the world in seen and unseen
night accelerates some fascination
I contemplate the poverty of words
who is doing the autopsy of freedom or something,
a requiem for a country that torments its name
streets don't smell of winter but of loneliness and oblivion, exhaustion and rage
some have already forgotten the meaning of blood
we like sweating not weeping, cursing not dreaming, finding the stain not the brain of fog
we practice forgetting like the snake charmers

dreams look like second hand stores, like the promise of the apocalypse,  a local version of Munch's scream, like an uninvented wheel or the beginning of the world.
an old lady sells fir wreaths in disbelief
too many drugstores ignore the untethered soul,  
a place of redemption they are, unwittingly

here there are poets, there are beasts, gentle souls and blind alleys,
indifferent smiles and lazy hands
and who can hear/bear the echo of that song... better dead than communists, comrades
province hates the center, the center forgets its north,
the all good sequestred against the all bad, no dialectics in doublespeak
truth to be told, there is  no consent for telling the truth
ersatz emotions exchanged casually, Hell is other people. always.  some play Russian roulette with reality, we are the heirs of a history disorder
if my dreams are full of birds, waters, lonesome deposits of the flow of time, I have to wonder
is history a desire machine searching for some mythical proportions

this country or a ****** mother with indifferent hands
here citizens have no faces, but interrupted gestures, fractured thoughts without containment
I fear those who cannot cry
without the meaning of blood history has no meaning or maybe it does, look at the speed of some digital thoughts,  the attack of ready made ideas. ideology becomes eulogy

no wonder I don't know how to end this poem
we need new words that contain their power
what is freedom? who knows, who cares.
oh, an old adagio, a gangrene of our undiscovered minds

he was still lying down and mumbling.



‘why have you not shared that one

about belief ?’



i think i forgot.



‘did anyone read it?’



i don’t know.



the bear slipped back to sleep

holding the rags.

When I was small
I needed nightlights
in the farmhouse by the swamp.

Shadows gathered in corners
like animals without names.

Before the move
I stood in the field at night,
no outline of trees,

the sky clouded,
air held still by heat,
depthless black before me.

Later, streetlamps
cut alleys into squares,
windows spilling yellow

from kitchens and bedrooms,
a neon sign dripping red
onto wet asphalt,

engines keeping the day alive.
Not dark.
Thin. Unfinished.

What I knew as a boy-
dark was company.
It held me,

steady as the breath
in my ribs.
Older now,

I long for that silence.
I have grown
so unafraid
of the dark.

My face elongated
like in a fun house mirror

a ghost no
I am alive in your dreams

I haunt

It’s not like I never saw humanity—
but I only saw it coming from me.
The world tries so hard to fit in,
they don’t even remember who they are.

I was just myself,
and they called me weird.
But I don’t know what’s more weird—
that they’re acting without a camera,
or is it just me who can't see the camera.