I’m blue about my angels’ flaps and flops,
each one could make a perfect sense for blatherskites and tattles.
When hopes run out of season – dried up hops,
wars rasp the grates of peace and brew… up to the brim new battles.
When breathing has become a daring feast
for dreams are hungry for a private room and public spacing,
then drinking stops and hoarseness chokes, increased
in bracing winds. My love is cursed within the walls I’m facing.
There is no place for me, an open note,
where pain is visible and fumes of yesterday live in it.
I have no name. All names surpassed my throat
in crowded outbreaks for housewarmings and in timeless minutes.
An inky clot is free in lines and veins,
the way a poetry can hurt. My heart reminds a scaffold,
it’s tough for heads and hardly missed by rains,
resembling homes for birds and wooden stakes, domes – for the baffled.
I am enchained and doomed to stand on view.
An exhibition is about the source of steering rawness.
And, here we go, the rawness squeezes through
my eyes. Sometimes it comes to bring a blaze or void of loners.
It’s all the same. The throbbing just began
in threadbare vowels while the seldom sunbursts are too shallow.
I sit inside a hold and knot my plan
to batten down the hatches and digest the world I swallowed.
The spring, a cat, prefers to stroll alone
and scare away the shadows where a solar trap still hobbles.
As to myself, I leave no time to groan
when poems’ pores spread cold through paper ice and eye rhymes wobble.
Who cares about the lyrics anyway?
They meant to fly away; those butterflies of lips are drifters
and breakers of deadlocks. And when they stray
the sharpness calls a need for elbows’ nudge and shifters
to orchestrate a mood creation rinse.
The lines of pure exhaustion, broken by a rooster’s credo
to call no names and disregard the wince
of Mother Nature when another sun is born in windows.
No questions asked to go or to remain
in words inside of you and wait for victories … etc.
I barely missed the war and muffled pain.
“You won’t be missed!” – The bullets write for soldiers open letters.

November 29, 2010