Poetry
“Poems don’t last as objects, but as presences. When you read something worth remembering, you release a human voice: you return a kindred spirit to the world. I read poems to hear that voice. I write to speak to those I have listened to.”
–Louise Glück
-
Fuck the world
I know I should love others as Jesus loves me, but with you, it becomes a bit difficult. Still, I hope you open your eyes soon and return to your humanity, and not your ambitions.
-
March eighth
They can’t find their voice and cry softly, while I scream for those who do not scream. I cry for those who cry.
-
Periodic table
The traffic code of the streets, a date of birth, my years of schooling, the career they say I chose, the periodic table and its elements.
-
Where to look for oneself?
It was no longer enough to step on the ground and drag the day along, to hang it at the end of a street fading into dusk in the middle of a city where nothing ever seemed to happen, because so little ever came back.
-
Competent
I keep thinking: maybe I’m addicted to the raw version the way people are addicted to behind-the-scenes footage, the way a timeline loves a disaster as long as it’s formatted.
-
Things had to be this way
Sometimes I feel I must express myself and then whatever needs to be expressed falls from my mouth like ash or like scales and when those scales harden everything seems made of green light; I suppose color can erase uncertainty, anyway now everything is made of green light.
-
Liminality
In the ebb and flow of time, I choose to be, I choose to exist without looking back. What lies beyond?
-
Faith
I believe in the fertilized seed that is both origin and destiny. In the announced agony that has a name and that has an end.
-
Three blocks away
If I close my eyes, I always think about fantasies. I could move houses once a month. My mom calls me cold, but I would say reversible.
-
I burned without warning
Suddenly, the air turned crisp, and the memories grew cold. I know it’s time, but no one taught me how to honor my own death.
-
Be a witness
It was easy to be a passing cloud, giving you shade, taking it away, offering you its outline.
-
Everything black turns blue
Bite me slowly, hold me tight. Caress me, write on my skin. What is it? What is it that you want?
