sometimes i get stuck in my head.

the green of the grass outside sometimes gets stuck in my vision.
the motion blur in the car sometimes is not blurred enough.
the music in the bar gets into my veins and it’s not loud enough, sometimes.

i don’t want to keep sinking into the same old feelings,
i like the new, like changing old clothes,

it takes time for me to realize i’m not my feelings



There is a need to make sense of experience through a language that is more authentic.

Language sets a standard to define our non-standard selves.

If you analyze yourself deeper, burrowing down to the centre (whatever that is),
the common words, symbols
become disingenuous means to express what it is found;

Convenient placeholders- ready made constructions for mass use.

Poetry is created from an inward movement
orbited to one mind
playfully engaged
in the struggle of re-definition.

decisions made between couples

Like a scene of a crime,
you come back to find what you missed
the first time.

It was too much to take in then;
the shock: too sincere;
so you go back,
and go again;
the memorable dries on wallpaper,
the senses clear
from a cloud of baking soda;

and each step backwards demands more of what was missed
until mystery writes another
same story

case solved;


the stain of time…

near Geneva.

Elementary particles explode in brilliant fragments 
when they collide with one another 
inside the Large Hadron Collider near Geneva, Switzerland;

curious physicists from safe distance observe 
a consequence that reveals
the deepest laws 
nature keeps hidden from view; 

A kind of entertainment, really.

Somewhere out there, in countries from the 1st to the 3rd,


in the thick of things,
intending or not,
collide with the world; 
exposing laws inside their own nature
kept concealed; 

consequences pending. 

Among other cases,
it’s so evident that it has become a dogma-

when authority
is not legitimate,
stop obeying.

They might even carry out

But yet, consider the position of a single,


as it obeys until          ;
and a physicist's head turns 
just in time
to miss it...

Maybe there is something deeper
than quantum physics
   near Geneva.

Everyone looks down sooner or later to smile.

Blushing at a random cool breeze,
or reminded of something
long thought forgotten,

or feeling
long thought abandoned.

For a moment, a stranger’s eyes roam sporadic across a busy room,

and land into mine.

The brief capture of a life,
that entrapment of time,
of memory,

concentrated in gaze.

Sometimes, I look down smiling as well.


I enjoyed tangling our bodies together
like we were plants,
accommodating ourselves to a surface at high-speed.

thigmotropism, I think it’s called.

but I didn’t like the time after, where we were like plants
cut up, sautéed,
on top a garbage pile-

I still don’t know
what to call

is that good?

You had this fragrance about you;
it smelled like the beach.

I always told you about it, and you
always replied “is that good?”

And I, of course, as
a gentlemen said “of course.”

That was a lie.

You smelled like one of those dirty beaches
people only travel
to because
it’s nearby
and they just want to waste a weekend.


take seriously only when
it’s the right author.

like tablets of how to be,
how to feel, but seldom
what these things are.

an emblem, designed for
mass transport, mass fixation,
transporting ghosts to Mexico.

but can we
fix the damage done? Yes,
it happens everyday in the background
of laughter.

tools for your individual,
to elevate
shame inherent in
the body.

architecture to talk
about freedom, rights,
what you called your
mother the night before.



I am covered in a wet darkness,
viscously roaming my foolishly welcoming body
                               like a foreign disease
exploiting the tender territory
                               of sensible skin
for every worthwhile infectious moment.

-I can't help but think of analogy.

Breath: a precious thing,
thick and heated
like the city pollution outside,
burning through my nose during each painful voluntary cycle;

carrying traces of pirate scents wishing to frighten
the modest treasure out of virginal sensibilities,

             in and out

the plunderous space of craven lungs.

Pools of gasoline swell on top of stained eyes
unyielding to be shut by whatever frail power
still lingers beneath;
with droplets
        filling up both ears
until sound from
all those pointless conversations
ride softly into a dullness that fades to phantom impression-
I had a similar experience on the plane.

I've seen enough.
I've listened enough.

I cry not from anything to do
with the heart but from a build up in the head
incrementing to a growth where my skull expands
to trespass the surface of four walls
and the room becomes nothing but cephalic irony.

The body,
a silly remnant spurring feelings of what once was,
reluctantly obeys
the violence
of torrent waves,
and I submerge darkly on
                        the bedrock of bed-riddeness


with the one activity that has solely defined me,
now stuck in loop.
now stuck in loop.
now stuck in loop.
now stuck in loop.

For the first time in a long time
I am not looking forward to the light of the morning
and the dry renewal that accompanies it,
                         which I know will not be there this time.

"You need a strong immune system to travel."