Wednesday, November 06, 2013


That the nights and days of society do not belong
to the hearts of the passionate
and how the illusion that my eyes are changing the light
puts my days in a bubble where I break

but toward the rainforest's blankets
of life-giving death, lost medicines
and this cloak of fiber-optic snakes I wear
to frighten away all the armies and how at times
it lights up their blades and their cannons
and the technology of silent time travel

love that brings to the abyss
its desire to inhabit all the milliseconds
as the trains rush past the tree trunks
and into the valleys of concrete
covered with patriotic tarps
and the sweet nonsense of sellers

that the passionate cannot sit still long enough
to be shot into space, but build stages
from the threshold of their nerve
decorated with face-paint of burnt forests
charging and laughing with fists
full of berries and bushes
stained by the night life that is growing like a vine
while a girl dances to Al Green on the tiles of a bakery
and a buyer laughs
the myth is what actually happens

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