Sent to the swift wind

Sent to the swift wind
these locks
golden hair into thin air

in translation

For Z, the better poet

Your words have despair
painted over them like a flag

all I have to do is be a vessel
that carries you across to the other side

with clear thought patterns
copy and paste your despair

over the towns and trees you've cut
with the edge of words

all I have to do is be the eagle
that looks with a sharp eye

on the nuances of what you don't say
does it make sense to paint the desert sand blue?

this too, is  vain, that poetry speaks
better truths than drunks

the truth is, in poetry we are both drunk
enough to reveal our biggest fears

etched with the sense that I lack
this very moment I am addressing

a body of words bigger than mine
washed out like a sea of treasures

fished out like the ways we spell
Baher, the sea, big and understanding of us both

this is what it is like to be someone's despair vessel;
attempt to cover the holes the wind insists on getting into with only bare hands.

Lifted

I get lifted, in comfortable arms
a little darker than mine

a little less sure of where they are placed
adequately to not cause me pain

a little heavier than me
but strong enough to make a house from scratch

this is a scene: I get lifted in the sky
you stay grounded to this earth that holds you.

worthless

Like a tidal wave
it washes over the shivering bird
worthless feathers is his only adjective.

a modern array of love

Your hands in mine, laced
you've touched me
but I felt nothing.

gems, music

There's gems in music
how a breath plays
over a warm arm

hide your sons

Tell me where do I hide my sons

When you come at us, inspired

Tears and fires, hands and sticks

I don’t want any bones broken

This is what happens when sons 

see their mothers beaten 

with a stick like the end of a scarf

dangling into fire 

wild and unforgiving 

I don't want this to happen to my sons

tell me what to do 

when you come at us, while we are chanting?

this is the price we have to pay

those who stand between the curb and the stones

eroding voices to get at the end of a song 

that doesn't play but for some ears 

tell me where do I hide my sons

from all this madness, this anger?

A search

I am looking for something that I miss

Made out of clay

Like a barouche, or maybe the end of the day

Presented before me- I know what I am missing

But I don’t want to go seek it. 

a cold birthday

Eyes drooping with liner,

Cigarette at hand and her birthday was very cold

Spent moving between the rock and the harder place;

I haven’t been home- she thinks

Because home’s sunshine was the answer

unsolicited advice on love

 In love, she tells me

Be content with the minimal

You are of an age that allows you

access to minimal sources for the same waters

use the little things you get, without sacrificing the rest.  

even the things termed perfect

Even the things termed perfect fail;
in peak minutes

my hand stops writing with the same curves
poems for your eyes

you stop responding to steady walking feet
because yours are too heavy

the sun shines in all the wrong hours
causing us an excessive tan, unaccounted for

bodies get drawn to the wrong bodies
without just reason

even the things termed perfect fail;
there's a hole in happiness' belly

there's a hole in the pockets of the clouds
that's how we get the rain

there's a missing piece in all that's perfect
for even the narcissus' flowers lost their father in the pursuit of perfection.

Damning Cupid

This is the failure of the lovers
once sifted on two floating boats
the damnation follows cupid
who ties and separates bodies

Delayed, for a hundred years

I am late
once more, it seems like it's been
a hundred years capsuled in twenty days
my bones ache
but I'm still breathing

I am waiting

A vacuum in time
heavy feet continue to pace
the same small space that becomes more familiar
while we wait

Gender roles

In the kitchen we talk about
the placement of our hands, our forks
speak of the way men sit and women pose
your voice gets louder, blaming me
for the spots on the dishes
while mine grows into yours spotting a cloud in your eye.

it's calm

A thunderstorm beats around the edge of your balcony
it is calm, we say, this potential gathering of clouds

the wind blows eastward, taking with it leaves
shoots and dust, it is calm, a quiet noise around the house

it is summer and the streets are boiling
with a hint of those who have started to feel, it's calm

we speak of the sea that is high and infested
with jellyfish and human skins

it is calm, how we raise our heads to face mornings
that are full when they bend us in half

all is calm here, in the safest points of the mountain
where we overlook the sleepers and refuse to see

how calm turns us over in the head.

miscommunication

I know how to cry
in so many different languages
none of which you know how to speak.

my life these days

This is a life now

delayed at waiting 

there are no trains to hop on. 

Don't write

Don't write when you are angry
the words will slant

Don't write when you are happy
the words will buzz out

Don't write when you struggle for words
you cannot create what you don't have

Don't write when you want attention
it arrives with other means

Don't write when you are sleepy
you will rush the river

Don't write when you just woke up
the river will be lazy

Don't write when you are sober
the words will be messy

Don't write when you are drunk
the words will be honest

Don't write when you are in between
if you are unclear, how will you be?

Don't write when you are clearheaded
where is the fire?

Don't write when you are hungry
how can you arrive at the word when you cannot lift yourself up?

Don't write when you are full
the words will be sleepy

Don't write when you are unready
things will look like this poem

Don't write when when you are ready
because there will not be enough time

Don't write for a situation, be every situation with words.

patience

is another name
for a death that slowly takes advantage
of time's upper hand.

a hand in fire

I walk hand in hand with fire
you say it is not equal to water

who is crazy enough to compare
fire with water

equate the cause and its effect
the setting and the ending?

I walked hand in hand with water
you say it is cooler on your tongue 

I articulate my vowels differently
how then, do you want me to speak to you
like fire, or like water?

solidarity with feeling

The voices that say
you have no space for feeling 

despite having rubble in your lungs
it doesn't matter

this is the truth, no gas
no envy for the shortages 

as if there is enough day
or night to cover the world

bone for bone
a cloud in the day

the voices that chant in marches
you have no space for feeling 

turning a head to me
if only, they read.

Apology to the pens

I can no longer
generate poetry
the same way I can emotions,
I am sorry, pens

work backwards

I work on your words
backwards,
from finish to start, this is us
two mad lovers who fail at conversation.

Accusation

A mother with error
does not look back
retrace her steps in space
before her hand comes down on the child's shoulder.

what are you waiting for?

Before the sunshine
before the husbandry
before re-learning to use my two hands for things other than typing
before drafting notes to be sent into space
before cracking a heart like a walnut
before break-age
before everything

what are you waiting for, now you see the end?

speak of the gypsy

you speak of the gypsy
with complex paragraphs

you assume that like all others
a gypsy won't understand

because he moves too much
hauls the houses on his head

march, tell me,
do you think its easy restarting somewhere after your roots hit earth?

bad internet

This is the result of a third world country 
an internet that cuts
mid-song, my chain of ideas

coming your way
your voice is ill-prepared
to the temperament in mine

this is all the result of a bad connection
blame the internet for it
blame us, for not beating our skins enough
to reach one another.

14

is the number of day
for the silence
that fills me when I watch the news