Icarus

twentyfour

2011-09-26T09:04:00.002-04:00

The basement was long forgotten since
I shut the door and windows
on those meanders of my memory of me.
Ruggedy and dirty – oozing blood and mold from every crevice
It was true to my necessities and soul,
genuine and sincere about imperfection and passion.

I left it for an uptown condo
crisp, expensive, and clean
that has plants and love and good food.
I thought this is how older people live, the price to achievement
And that I was getting older and more ambitious
Or so I thought
I thus shut the door to that basement
I put it on the market waiting for a buyer that never came
Till I forgot about it
The memories, inconvenient, faded

And you broke in
Burglar of my heart
You opened the windows, turned on the light
Painted the walls in bright colors, and sang notes pure and true
I chatted with you for an evening, on the windowsill
Trying to make you leave and wishing you’d never do
And then I left

twentythree

2011-09-26T09:02:00.001-04:00

Blood seeps from my brain
sight fades into unconsciousness
and those realities that once were
stones at the foot of mountains
are now shattering quietly
like empty beer bottles in a trash can.

I look myself in the mirror
And see empty hallways
Full of books never read,
and of silence greying out the shelves.
The weight of doubt rests on my sword,
Which, unsheathed, is laying on my heart
Slowly cutting in...

twentytwo

2011-09-26T09:00:00.002-04:00

Leaves grow, burn and fall
Life is born, lives and dies
like a mechanical clock.
But life flows over us,
and we are transported
to remote shores of existence,
where time stalls,
feelings break in the waves,
and life loses meaning
to sensations, passions, and hopes.

My life grew out of the barrel of a gun
straight and purpouseful.
And yet my heart, drunk,
is now waving this gun as a wand reaching for spells.
I thought my aim was true,
but the targets,
shifting with responsibility,
were dead well before my shot.
I only now recognize the deceit,
looking over the landscape laying about me
littered with dead purpouse.
I fall on my knees, and let go of the trusted gun,
gasping for air, as the Garden of Eden I was hunting in
reveals itself a desert;
elegant, silent, and noble.... but lifeless

twentyone

2011-09-23T16:37:00.003-04:00

After a night and morning of slipping into peaceful thoughts,

sudden as a ricocheting bullet,

your silence shaves cold slices of doubt through my mending heart.

I am left gasping for air,

as my heart and breath lose synchrony,

as my hands and my lips are shaken by

jolts of electrical energy which traverse me

like shivers in a dark, cold, and misty night.

I realize I have lost control of my heart,

which pumps on its own rhythm

a blood which I thought lost,

sprayed as it is on countless stones.

twenty

2011-09-22T17:11:00.004-04:00

Wrecked by the raging ocean

The ship spills its contents like blood from its guts

There are toys, vinyls, guitars

and precious photographs, flowers and love letters

And all sinks or float apart

as an uncollected misery of confusion.

I stare from the deck of the sinking giant.

And while my everything hangs in the balance

I am distracted by that Prelude from Chopin,

interrupted, incomplete, and imperfect,

and yet brimming with the infinite energy of the unexpressed.

Silent as the sun,

you have burnt through my closed eyes.

nineteen

2011-09-22T17:07:00.002-04:00

Your silence is fog for my heart.

It embraces everything,

turning sight into hope

and ego into passion.

And as the memory of you fades into my own undomitable self

with its unsolved quandaries

I, just I, walk your fog without realizing

that the destination is important no more.

It is known no more.

eighteen

2011-09-19T18:08:00.002-04:00

God, father in heaven,

Where are you?

My soul is prostrate. Bent and shaken,

my pillars crumble under the weight of illusion.

A lion appears in the distance

I remember its mane and yet not its demeanor

I am afraid. I hide.

I seek shelter but

the temples are in ruins,

the forests are on fire

Am I running from you, O Lord?

Am I running from myself?

seventeen

2011-09-19T18:05:00.004-04:00

The sea laps the rocks, quiet

There is peace in the water

I tread on the wet sand,

remembering a time of glory and past

Future coming to me as a breeze filled with salt

And I feel as a Creator...

Given peace by the crashing of waves on the shore

By the turmoil of billions of atoms

Individual, scattered and pointless.

I am an atom of that water

Dragged by forces I cannot understand

Spinning in a cloud of possibility

And yet I move,

and yet I love,

and yet I feel

sixteen

2011-09-19T08:39:00.003-04:00

Pieces of me, cards of a deck scattered across my thoughts.

The disarming power of chance, beauty, color and words

Pushing me away from the life I called my own

Unearthing memories of a forgotten me, that once was

Beautiful, powerful, and free, swollen with life, passion and conflict

A chamber of my heart, atrophied and decrepit

Is now filled with life, and the uncontrollable fury of broken shackles.

You pull me apart, rip my ordered seams, turn my eyes towards

the new old cards of my deck,

oddly shaped, awkward, and worn by neglect

And while I am left here, in this storm of emotion, loss, and numbness

Chasing the unknown cards of my own deck, blown by your wind,

all I wish is to see you once more.

fifteen

2011-09-19T08:35:00.004-04:00

Burrowing deeper with every thought,

shredding, ripping, wreaking havoc within me.

You are stone to dust, gold to lead and gold yet again.

Thoughts of you wash my reality away.

Suddenly distant from shore, I sail these waves

guided by memories of that breath of life,

that pulse in my dead veins,

the scare and thrill of abandoning myself in your eyes.

And pouring my turmoil into them;

an infinity, dark and shattered.

fourteen

2008-06-05T14:34:00.005-04:00

words leave us in the vacuum
meaning clinging to the sharp corners
of once unblurred letters

sheltered in definitions
through them we assert our futile
need for a human truth

but nothing ever will be true about words
as whatever is true stands
on what cannot be written
what cannot be spoken

words as an excuse
for our unwillingness to create,
for our shame of being cast
from the Heaven we once owned

thirteen

2008-05-22T13:11:00.006-04:00

tears, droplets of infinity,
doors to the shallow refuge of our souls
and their only proof

tears, liquid calls to Heaven
as hymn or damnation
but equally divine in their message,
their statement, in front of God,
that we are in His image

tears, chosen words
of speechless divinities
lie in a corner of our heart
as an old instrument
of a dismissed musician

twelve

2008-05-15T14:46:00.005-04:00

eleven

2008-05-08T14:12:00.002-04:00

will it ever stop?
that tremor in the hands
that gradually faster heartbeat
that flow of uncontrolled thought
that creative paralysis?

will I ever settle?
will my mind stop screeching
with the silent sound of nails
on the walls of a jail?

I crave for the noise of life
to bring silence to my spirit
the uncontrollable desire
to slit open, gushing out
breathing
sleeping

never felt such detachment between reason and spirit
absolute peace one one side
a bloodbath on the other
a detachment from life, from the flow of present

feeling like a heavy rock is gradually sedimenting inside my heart
from scattered remnants of unfinished thoughts,
mea culpas, and mismanaged instincts

a rock made of vacuum

ten

2008-05-05T12:33:00.003-04:00

number of completeness
parody of our times
conventional like 10 is not 2 and 3 not 7

what is in fact complete if not our fear of completeness?
... of catharsis?

that umbilical cord, that satanic thread that keeps us on earth
and gags our souls screaming for spirit
feeding us with illusions of independence
of divinity without God
of creation without Creator

we look for completeness in the creations of "God incomplete"
philosophy, knowledge, science, wealth and power were
all made in mankind's own image: incomplete, imperfect, finite
and as kids in front of their broken toy
we look desperate at our grand dreams of emancipation, failed,
at the land bridge to Heaven, impassable

nine

2008-04-27T19:23:00.004-04:00

faith

hanging in the balance on the chasm of "reason"
a reason shielding us from ourselves, from our true and vertiginous divinity

is there a reality we can grasp? is there a truth we can reach?
for what is love if not truth in disguise?
and what is love without faith?
an empty shell,
a calculation on false assumptions,
a limited theorem,
a postulate forever unproven

the absolute as the scarecrow of faith
the unacceptability of infinity
beyond its technical utility
the absolute as the necessity to delegate your soul to it
the perception of limited freedom
which binds the worlds to unlimited slavery

eight

2008-03-29T16:53:00.003-04:00

restlessness...

feeling the urgency of detachment. Of peace.
The complete absence of the world... to rest in the thoughts
Getting the world out to welcome our self in... like a stranger from the street in need of safe haven.
Can we welcome ourselves in our own little house?
How open are we to our own truths... ?

thinking as peace and war, a conflict with the other self, the one we learn from. That uncomfortable mirror we can't break.

the breath quickens as in preparation for a battle, but there is no war to fight, no place to scream, no ears to listen. There is just the incessant hum of cars running by in a world too static to save itself.

seven

2008-03-06T17:12:00.006-05:00

incoherency, key to a developing unrest
coherency, retarded and incomplete
an illusion to bind human life and feeling into a rule and code
like a machine made of levers and wheels

coherency is the language of control, doubtlessness, or dangerous fantasies
created to feed our need for bliss

OR does not belong to humans who are inherently AND, IF, never NOT
creatures made for expansion, conditions and denial of denials.

we are white AND black
we are pure AND filthy
we are believers AND blasphemers
we are plural, crystals of many facets cut out from the stone of a thousand colors

accepting incoherence, opposing forces and constant struggle
inching towards the realization of a greater self,
the Icarus' dream with no wings to melt

six

2008-03-03T14:13:00.002-05:00

"I think computer viruses should count as life. I think it says something about human nature that the only form of life we have created so far is purely destructive. We've created life in our own image"

Stephen Hawking (1942 - )

five

2008-03-03T13:06:00.004-05:00

Future doesn't exist. past doesn't matter. present is what is real
past as a political creation with the aim of distract us from the present and frighten us with the future.
Past is in faulty memories and corrupted words of historian, future in the filthy mouths of politicians, present in the hands of the suffering.

We are too intent in dreaming a future which will never come to care about a present which hurt us. Leaving us to forget about the only aspect we can do something about.

Present is when you create the future and delete the past. Present is when LIFE happens and God speaks to us. Present means action when past and future are just words written in water.

Present is that blinding flash of terrifyingly true reality within the deadly embrace of Memories and Hopes. There is nothing as terrifying as the present, the fact we live, that we are conscious and thus able to change reality. We always live a split second in the past, waiting for the present to deliver us some good news; never to peek in the real turbulent flow of one's own present.

What is it we are afraid of in the perception of life's flow? The consequent mind-body detachment? What is lying there? In that free flight, in that swimming in stormy waters. What can we reach? A truth? What are we afraid to discover?

four

2008-02-06T10:43:00.002-05:00

“Society is like a stew. If you don't stir it up every once in a while then a layer of scum floats to the top.”

Edward Abbey (American Writer whose works, set primarily in the southwestern United States, reflect an uncompromising environmentalist philosophy. 1927-1989)

three

2008-02-05T18:55:00.002-05:00

Happyness, the word of all words, the inconceivable concept so alien to most people
Happyness in belonging, humans recognized by their class, their status, their race, their group, their party, their color, their language and happy because of that.
Individuals as lonely ships in a thundering storm, seafaring disgraces to most people, madness on legs for denying the "common truth" the accepted "path to happyness".
Belonging as a sense of safety never completely achieved, an interrupted coitus. Happyness for having is desperation for losing. Belonging as fear of non belonging.
I am I, me , myself... and you are supposed to be you, damn it, not something else. I want YOU, what YOU think, how YOU feel, I want to grasp YOUR soul, shove it in my mouth, chew it and savour it like a rib from Adam. I want YOUR soul as nothing else exist but souls, roaming, solitary and united. One thing with the cosmos and among themselves, unity in diversity, the uniqueness of ones being, every moment a different colour bouncing off their souls, like glittering stars sailing on their milky way

two

2008-02-05T07:52:00.001-05:00

in the middle of something. You start writing never knowing where it would end
This feeling of anger, rushing through me towards me. Projected failure, inconsistencies of living a life never begun
I
Where is I?
Should I return, should I spare myself.
Where does this fire comes from?
How to tame myself, chains loose, cage broken, devil amok.
Longing for a full breath, a true smile, faith.
How to forgive oneself?
Why also?
How to get reason and practice to collide, reason and faith to coexist, a stable ground

We sail, we never dock, and sometimes we get ourself in open sea as an act of faith only to see faith abandon us. And we are left stranded, fighting the waves which keep coming.

I need a rock, to crash onto and on which to build a new ship...a better one this time

one

2008-01-08T18:49:00.001-05:00

how do you start a blog?
do you write about your day?
is it about being original? being read?
being known or being notorious?

why having a blog anyway?
are you being self-centered, protagonist in search of an author?
five minutes of stardom is all you desire?

being read
why being read if not to provoke?
reaction equal and opposed to every action
truth confined to books
world is unreactive, exhausted like burnt oil
a lesser form of energy
no energy to be, we delegate our being to the things we want
idols of a setting sun

provoke anger scream
rejection of the notion of truth
the artificial dichotomy between reason and passion
where the whole struggles to unify

be