From now on,
I will only speak in poetry.
Once I have spoken,
if you require further explanation
you must wait for the next poem.
This is the only way
I can convey
the snarled web of contradictions
that beget
my intangible truth.
So let it be witnessed,
by all who stand
before me and beside me
in this infinite universe tonight,
that I have publicly declared
my unequivocal Poetic Dependence.
There is a strange beauty
in my world of chaos.
And I have grown to realize
that I would not want it
any
other
way.
This is why I stray
from all
safe
hypocritical
havens
and bask in the glory of
dangerous
uncertain
truths.
My madness
is apparent
in the tears I cry.
Your madness
is hidden
in the words you lie.
I am translucent.
This makes me vulnerable
to those who wish ill
upon my insides.
But I can turn light
into a million different hues
as the particles diffuse
through the membrane of my skin
and create
Pablo Picassos
within.
Sometimes the colors swirl
into a sorrow so blue
I wish I never let the light in at all.
Other times
red and yellow
burn such passion onto my soul
that I think I’ve finally found—
The Answer.
I finally know!
But then the grays
cloud over my thoughts
saying
black and white
do not exist.
And I am happy
that light tortures me like this.
Dear Soul,
I’m putting you on a
strict diet
of pickles and paradoxes.
Drink plenty of water to avoid:
dehydration
delusion
dementia
and the likes.
Keep away from children.
Set your alarm clock when you wake up
every morning.
You will be a poet in no time.
Sincerely,
Peter Piper
P.S. It is best to be bare-foot
at all times.
I think my muse has left me.
Given up.
Gone to find another hand to push.
Not mine.
I am no longer worthy.
I guess this is what I get
for lamenting my solitude
when I was never really alone.
All this time
I was surrounded by
the most beautiful muse.
She whispered wonderful,
torturous
ideas into my soul.
But she wasn’t very good
at drying my tears.
Indeed, she used them
to hydrate the wind she commanded.
And I resented her for this.
Nonetheless,
she was my faithful companion.
Not one to abide
by circadian rhythms,
she would wake me from my sleep,
beg to play while I was working,
and taunted me
with her most titillating sounds
when I was bound by my bath.
Even when she wasn’t whispering,
she was there.
I felt her
in every sporadic moment
of inexplicable inspiration.
But now she is gone.
And there are no tears.
And there is no wind.
And I have no ideas in my soul.
Now I know—
Now I feel—
Alone.
Indefinitely dangling
from an ambiguous thread.
Not falling behind.
Not getting ahead.
Just flailing about
in the suffocating air.
Waiting for the rain
in a dizzying despair.
Needing any escape
from this saturated prison
and its birds-eye view of my
Immortal Indecision.
Patterns and Habits
turn this house
into a hell.
Any place I know
too well
becomes the place
My Demons Dwell.
Reminders of a
c h i l d h o o d s e l f
whose safety-net
was burning coals.
The only comfort
that she knows
is a hatred of
HER SELF.
Human
healing
touch.
The one thing that’s been
missing
all along.
I just want to be warm.
Cared for.
Bared more.
Get to the bottom
of me.
The hot, lava core.
No, I’m not trying to be
wise or wordy
tonight.
I’m just letting off steam,
sending out
smoke signals:
L-O-V-E.
S-O-S.
Is there anyone out there?
Hurry!
Damsel in distress…
I don’t know how much longer I can go
believing in a world
that isn’t so.
We think we’re smarter than
the birds,
the bees,
but we don’t even know
the world they see.
The more you think you know
the less you really understand.
It’s all part of The Universe’s
overarching plan
to fold us over
and within ourselves
until we find
we’re someone else,
piously humbled by Its
vast ubiquity.
Dicen que una foto
vale mil palabras.
Pero ni mil fotos
pueden reemplazar
a dos pequeñas palabras:
” t e q u i e r o.”
Pero tú eres pintor
y yo soy la poeta.
Ambos artistas
pero la forma de expresar
es tan distinta
que nos hacen falta
tanto letras como colores.
Y al final, no tenemos
ni un dibujo
ni un poema.
Solo un caos de lenguaje
sangrado encima de un lienzo
que, según mi punto de vista,
mejor habría quedado en blanco.
Pues, ¿qué es lo que vale
una palabra, entonces?
Bueno.
Como todo el arte
la belleza se define por
el observador.
[21-October-2007]
Standing on the edge
of the precipice
of disaster,
I let myself go,
free-falling into
a perfect pool of peace.
