A point comes in your life
when you fall into a group of people
who have thought of the world
very unlike you.
And then, like a moth
to the yin-yang
you want the annihilation
of the world of an either and an or,
which does not exists
and so in the end,
annihilation is all that remains.
Contradictory things on their own
are not contradictory
and you’ve realized that, it aches your existence, doesn’t it?
I think a poet or a writer
must’ve already said,
To live a life everyday
—and if “life” stands for meaning–
is to make a sand castle
down by the beach.
I was walking on a mountain one day
when an archangel
suddenly fell upon my back
and impressed his feet
upon my shoulders,
and left my arms crooked.
His touch burst his own feet
and a cosmic power escaped from his talon-graze
into my back,
and no longer could I stand straight
without all the missing weight; his.
when I walked the mountain road
the children spoke of the devil,
my arms you see–
were like a deer’s tall antlers,
a waiting tree for a mighty falcon.
I thought that was fate
and that there are always repercussions
of archangels injuring your back,
and yet one day
when I fell in the river or perhaps the river fell in me,
I could hear my arms
with a voice of their own
Talking like the ghosts of the river Styx;
they asked me
“Do you remember your solitary gait?
Do you remember your solitary?
Do you remember?”
But I did not
for I had become a crater
and it was these words
echoing in a non-linear chaos
that I had to remember
to plough out the ground flat again
I am a blind man
with mad visions of things gone by,
the contours of memories
which is a body
-not your flesh-
but a man made out of a river;
on a very dark night
when the snow falls
and the candles flicker
in a boarding room
full of merchants counting money,
happy of the words they see on their screens;
my eyes are without pupils
and today I prophesy the past,
collapse the future,
and exist ever so negligent
A spread from Ricardo Cases’ Paloma al Aire (2011)
Sadness often lurks
like a blind pigeon
in a conclave of mirrors,
disrupting a New York morning crowd
always otherwise in traffic.
A bite into my tomato soup’s
and a flash of winter
upon a clear August morning;
my soul is deep in longing.
Oh but I would never wish this fluttering sadness upon anyone.
May it be balmy
and cold like the white marble,
without a screech in the wall
or the waver of the tolling cage,
and may it be a dying fire
with tepid feet,
curling all the memories lifeless
with nothing but somber gloom.
To catch a firefly,
too dim in the night–
I’ve been waiting for you so long
and I cannot believe,
all the words from the pantry
have been painted upon the window
and finally, you can take in their aroma,
as we frolic down a cobble street,
you and me
trench coat, sun frock;
how conventional in our chasing
and so, we too, fated by the clock.
But it cannot be conventional
for fireflies do not fly inside stomachs
and kites skirt without an uproar,
they sleep in the gentle noon,
past parallel lines
and sober lamp shades snowballed in golden eggs;
To love you is to be mellow,
and yet my desire breathes
like a July summer breeze.
in open air,
and I am disposed off
Largely, a can of vacuum,
and breaking down to the point
that when you’re knocking at a certain door,
begging for alms,
you’re not even standing there–
for you’ve committed a crime against yourself
and you cannot exist because
a. you exist when what you want is yours & it is not now
b. you exist when you no longer have the want & it is not now.
And so I am always in a limbo
staring into a space
San rock painting of ‘shamans of the rain’ ( !khwa:-ka xorro)
I went to buy some eggs
and I saw a winged ant sparkling upon the white lap
of a woman who sits.
I told her
of the company she had,
and all she did
was cluck her tongue,
and say that they die, after the rains.
Of lately, my sweet dreams
in restless jaws
but with calm odors of the ground
I am riding an Aladdin lamp,
to moth to flames
and oh so clearly, I see the clouds
upon my tongue
a purple night–
We’re born again
if only to die.