The Meaning of Life

You’ll just know.
You’ll just…
know.

I finally know.

Intuition
like a lightning bolt,
like a realization
at the tip of my tongue
yet light-years away
and not composed of any words at all.

Reaching out to touch it,
my chest caves in
as I cross over dimensions
and break through magnetic fields.

Crushing. Imploding. Recoiling. Resounding.

The universe aligns
and I catch a glimpse
of a worm-hole
black-hole
holy grail of light.

If you open up the sun,
life as we know it
will end.

I catch my breath.

Yes.
This is it.

In the Oh!-Zone

I’m on fire!

Better stop-drop-and-roll
before this muse
loses control
and burns me to a
delectable crisp.

I’m too young
to go out like this.

Like a yellow star
suddenly turned blue,
falling fast,
making dreams come true.

All except my own.

Cuz it’s too hard to see
with a blazing sun
inside of me.

Right behind my eyes
burning through my brain.

I’m too sizzling
to be sane.

Declaration of Dependence

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.

I Am Not Opaque

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.

Granted

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.

Dicen

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]

Meddlesome Mason

Human beings
are nothing but cookie jars
full of
frosted contradictions
and I just caught
God
red-handed,
trying to lick the frosting
off one of mine
and put it back
into the jar.

Arabesque

The swing of her mood

like the swing of her hips

can be sultry

seductive

but suicidal.

˜

Which way will she go?

For whom does she yearn?

˜

Transfixing

transitory

twists and turns.

˜

The beauty lies

in interpretive style:

impulse

incense

and intuition.

˜

No other rule.

No other guide.

˜

She is both Master

and Slave

to Inspiration.

Verse

Poetry
expresses truth
without committing to facts.

It is the essence
of being
resounding
from the Earth
and into
the writer’s verse.

Reality.
Duality.

Life’s symphony—
set to words.

El Regalo

Mi vida
resumida
en los colores mezclados
de un cuadro
regalado.

Sin conocerme.
Sin verme.
No obstante,
él pintó
todo lo que existe
en mi alma,
mi corazón.

Tan inocente
ahí colgado
sin estrategia
en la pared.

Me alimenta.
Me quita
definitivamente
la sed.