Turbulence

To think I almost died in mid air
stuck between the seat and the bleeping  sound
noise, and a plastic cup with horrid orange juice
the shaking, earth-bound and earth-made is much to question
there's wind where one cannot see his shadow,
there's void in the voice that tells me, confidently
clearly, that the winds will stop
that the world will keep turning
the things that fall out of the sky are received by earth
duly, loosely, with the right ingredients of love and darkness
I shake, left axis, right spots
hoping that the fall, won't be like angels hitting clouds
on their way to earth
to kill and give birth
to deem and doom.

Parched

we've parched-
earth for the lack of wonder, wilts again at the thought of thistles
left to graze at dirt

parched
the sense of devotion, kneels to a place eastward
praying for a deity or God

parched
sight of the eagles, seeing with one eye
many blind-spots unrequited

parched
against white skin, doting as if morals
are made by washing off anger

parched
the names of several games, jokes playing
against humans in effort to produce pictures

parched
unreal cities of stone and metal, linger westward
in the direction of the traveling merchants and illnesses

parched,
departures of the swallows, flying in flocks
to warmer lands

parched
our excess of  milk and of honey, we exchange
for primal water to wash our heads

parched
the consideration of ownership, you hold
the tanks and we shiver in thirst

parched
begging for a drink at the river bank
for a prayer, we parched for a new baptismal
that relieves us the need for clear waters.

Bench memory

Green, rusty on the side
uncleaned for years by the need of graffiti and noise
non-fighters, we love like secrets underneath the trees
I run my hand in the holes of the chap green painted wood
 figure real miracles like these are motionless, maps
how can these benches, old and stout
renounce our carvings
when they mark our names?.

On the field

Speak with other devices than hearing, there isn't much trouble
not tonight. the battlefield is clear,
there's less haze in the air despite the poignant smell of humans;
some days we bite the apples inside a cloud, made of sulfur
in the afternoon, the mist takes to making women we miss a vision,
tall, slender and ripe of envy among other things.
There's no rash fire around us, not any more
once, three weeks ago I saw a dead-man walk the plains
head bowed to the snow and to hunger
there had been screaming here and there but these
like us are sporadic, non-violent callings for the stars
these days the grounds dismiss the roaches, hunting for beings
who were here by virtue of being, talking to moonlight
when the breaking of fast drives dawn, we find places for the silent new bones.

Morning watch

The washing hangs high on the slit roofs,
clean  linen smells of faint roses and sunflowers
packed into label boxes, the faces of here mark economic size smiles,
blistering with candy, left done enough at the corner shops,
flailing the socks, the little wind messes out with
the jackets, the t-shirts. Lace doesn't hang outside
things that are set for the indoors, stay indoors
shut behind a wooden drawer

like my habits of uniformity in color,
a schoolchild morphed into womanhood
by short white socks, high pony-tales and basic black underwear
minimalist, there's no use in elaboration,
I enter the speech of women like a whisper
too low, I keep it mine
too high, it becomes a scream

I hear the sounds of my balcony,
like soft moans and whimpers
there isn't much unusual activity
the trees are parked in their own space,  the wind doesn't question
its blows-
there harsher wind doesn't move the dogs into the other side of the street
you teach me how to treat order
as graceful as a bean sprouting
there are sounds of gossip and exchange of jam fruits in theory
the balcony's stranger hides no moss

on a book corner under the sun

the ladies wrap their muffed conversation with linen

some pillowcase over the shabbier clothes, making of the rooftops
a forest of foliage, a taste of color
in a while the ladies bite words, 

Smuggle the washing into round baskets 
and disappear indoors 

on my balcony, I sit 

I am knitting you a sweater, unaware
you are looking outside
like it had rained here, like it will rain again
like cracking one egg ruins the set-
you eye the ladies and me
I stitch onward a pit on the green design
I don't receive jam recipes
unless it rains, the fruit can wait

Confessional poetry

Now the cat's out of the bag
grey with fur the lining of comfort,
I do not confess my secrets, to poetry.

In a blue room, one morning.

Blue is the right shade for the corners
for future boyhood, uninhabited by feet
or any trotting of  milky skin
blue is my forgotten boyhood and the void

blue is enough for the cushions,
it drapes well the sides and centerpieces of this room
I picked the shades to cover what I didn't want to touch
the photo-frames, all lined against the shelves
the pads where he'd rest a head

In the room, the women flow
whispering warm water giggling at their throats,
in whisper, I louder moan in fear
of celebrations. The finer my cries
the longer they whisper, as if only angels
hear when two women speak
unknowing to them that the sick too
have ears

clammed, clasped I rest my head by the wall-
it's left untouched, this body,
a land that's loveless to the knowledge
of other bodies the size of stone,
carrying meteors in their eyes
this body is immune to jealousy but not pain

here is another blue morning, dissociated from days
in his blue, my shaded room
the women flow, greeting with lilac the walls
the hands shaking, the eyes trembling to my frizzy hair
their tongues roll like cigarettes discarded for stronger pipes
I know I am right- blue is the right shades for the corners,
 the right size for his round, perfect head
like a paper sheet under weights I stand blue with ink and a small head,
pulling and tugging
must I feel this soreness in my joints?