Poetry

The poet’s subject is his view of the world
You know nothing if you engage your mind to a further level of definition
Before that, you must let it go
The primitive poem responds to the voices of nature
The medicine comes with the time...
Poetry is a wisdom voice inside
That is not afraid to have the outer world dissolved
No fear of travelling from mountain to mountain
From sun to sun
Reality is in perfect correspondence with the imagination
There is great magic going on

LOVE IS CONDITIONAL

Then everything is conditional...
It may be unconditional in the abstract
But it is conditional in the concrete:
In the immediate, tangible moment
Your indifference,
The way you can look upon me with such hate
With wrath
With confusion
Makes it impossible to hold as truer
The moments you swore to me your love
The moments we swayed in the land of the tacit.

I believe in your voice, for better or worse
It tells me what I need to know.
It tells me that the voice cannot but lie
It is a phantom.
My love is unconditional to your flow...
I will swallow the emotions you shove through my ears
Down my throat...
I brush off like feathers,
Stubbornly, to feed some fantasy of inner sun,
The temperamentality of your being.
Love.
Things, after all.
Word-things.
The voice, singing.
Abstract is everything
In the air, suspended.

Respuesta a todas las conversaciones

Tú dices “la tele es mi yoga”

Conectas con el flujo colectivo para dejar de pensar

Yo digo “la yoga es mi tele”,
No soy pasiva.
Me entretiene el estímulo directo  pero conducido:

La yoga que practico con esas personas extrañas

Flotando en una isla

En ceremonias heterodoxas

Rogándoles que hagamos teatro.

Quiero mirar adentro de mí misma

Quiero recordar

Para borrarlos

Todos esos juicios

Todas esas programaciones

De “ellos”, “nosotros”, “el pasado”

“nuestra historia”

¡Si apenas hemos rascado la superficie de la Tierra!

Hay pirámides más grandes allá abajo

(Es como la corteza de un árbol

Figural y literalmente),

Como adentro de nosotros mismos

Mas extrañas que nuestras manos,
tan externas hojas-raíces.

Me gustan las manos de dentro

Que buscan hacer cosquillas…

Ya se acabará este sufrimiento...

No se puede mantener mucho tiempo

La tierra que trabajo sin la ayuda de nadie…

Bellas flores crecerán en nuestras ruinas