Love Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were a salt rose, or topaz
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
So I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

breakfast

management
market trends
monuments
mercedez benz

opulence
occult gods
opera house
ode to joy

quiet nights
shrinking
starring
shirking
sneaking
away

the nights make themselves little
and quiet
not breathing audibly
eyes active
the rest of the gargantuan body
completely still

on a monday morning
u can catch a busy street asleep
wiping the wine's aftertaste off its lip
in an ancient alleyway
you can watch the day rise
shake itself awake
and thrust itself headlong into toil and sweat
and leave you behind

to ponder the undercooked bacon on your plate
and the quickly cooling chocolate in your cup

die a log.

inspired by this beautiful writing by this girl named Amy from years ago. Written some time around May of last year.


.scene

ray - chasing my hollow death.thats what it was.

allegra- dad, its not ur fault. never is. incredible how they disposed of so many bodies though. an efficient regime.

- no. hiding lies and historical fallacy..call it propaganda, patriotism...whatever...thats efficiency. ever was a great civilization (Read: empire) not built on the backs of great propagandists?

- ever an "empire" quote unquote, not torn from the cloth of evil?

- good answer to rhetoric. study that these days, and honor dusts itself off to accompany you wherever you may tread.

- so i'm at the supermarket, great sales. bananas, 1 buck an ounce. a head of brie cheese, que delicia!, ) about 40 euros. whatever.

- hey. one of these days im taking the day off. going to eat some cheap coffee. maybe drink wine all day..think they serve wine at that german beer garden miranda spoke of?

- doubtful. but im always full of doubts.

- chip.

- well...(reverie)

- (scratches middle of back with the thumb of right hand, nervously for a few seconds...withdraws hand slowly, mechanically...drapes his hand across his daughter's face maniacally) callous, thats what i've taught you.

- to touch without feeling.

- aye.

- wonder where samson is these days. i never spoke to him after he left med school. should've done though. the boy was brilliant. you always liked him. maybe cuz he was a cook.

- show me a man that can eat, and i'll show you a life well lived.

- aye.

- TGI Fridays. we must rid the world of these. their horrible pastries, shit for potato skins. i'm angry that these are the only dining houses that stand to make money in a country like this. glorified carbo-fat, without the glory anymore. what have we become.

- poppa. daddio. que maravilla. look at my lamb chops, i cooked them in the wine you ordered.

- vino. divino.

- daddy. buy me a pony for once. i forgot the smell of a horse. i was 12, remember?

- we went down to mexico. what, every 3 months or so then? your mother always loved the ranch. zacatecan whores. mmm mm m.

- daddy, aloud again.

- sorry, honey. i'll be off to bed. tivo conan for me?

- (lays her hand on top of her other hand, resignation-like, which sits directly above her elbow, which in turns lays lazily on the counter, not wiped clean since morning coffee..sunday morning. see it in her eyes, saturnine. dont forget the chin then, on top of the top hand, choreographed like a march on a soldier's day of graduation, as if orchestrated by a genius of which one is not totally aware)

scene.

The first paragraph of my ill-fated novel

from this time last year. Read + weep.



"Lots of times these people go around complaining about their overbearing parents. The ones who push them excessively towards excellence. The demanding, fanatical brand of parenting. They seem to heap onto their children all of their own hopes and ambitions. Perhaps those unfulfilled, or other times in a wild, perhaps unconscious act of vanity, (which is probably the first reason these people ever have children) they wish their children to exactly mimic their own career paths. Mommy's a mathematician, Daddy’s a part time psychoanalyst, part time poet, and so Junior and Juniorette are shoved headlong into those same straightjackets of destiny. “I always knew little Junior had a sensitivity, a propensity, a prodigious proclivity for poetry…HE GETS IT FROM ME”. If Junior becomes a poet, then it proves validation for Daddy Dearest’s genetic prowess. Indeed, it would appear this father had endowed his own gifts upon his son, by some wave of the magic penis, and having never ever “pushed” Junior to “become like me” or ever schooled him in the art of poetry since before the boy could walk, no none of that determined the boy’s fate; it must have all been just a natural touch that was passed down generationally. Then, by a colossal accident of Mendelian wizardry, the boy comes to see poetry as his vocation. It’s quite a Catholic event: clouds parting, heart opening, lightning striking…Boom, Bip, Kazaam, boy is poet. He pens lines, knowing not whence they’ve come, and in his head, like a young seminary student, he feels a great conviction, an affinity with the lifestyle of his desired profession, that of the poet, and that he must never stray from the road to celestially inspired verse."

33 Pages of Nothing (These songs for my watermelon)

this is from July 9, 2005. I remember that summer day. It was hot and I had this tiny little notepad, on which I handwrote all this and there were even kind of pictures in there, or I did some George Herbert type stuff with the words. I felt like I was intoxicated, as you can probably plainly tell. I was not. But I never write in these tiny notepads, but maybe I should try it again, and see what 26 yr old me comes up with, contrasted with this mess. Enjoy, if you can.


Pg. 1

Most people
My age have
Already learned to
Sleep on a capsule


Pg. 2

What wood
happen if
I cood rip tear coerce snatch pages

out of the
old Days?

TRIUMVIRATE


Pg. 3

If I didn't
wear clothes
I'd
stare holes into
the nebulous space
between yours.
emptying myyourself
invitingly open
obtrusive
stalemate!


Pg. 4

glasses cocked
sideways/halfassed
atop imperfection w/ a
glass eye, in a fishbowl,
so here's to forgetting
half-baked watcha
macallits that evend out
with cunning and
separate desires all
machinations of a sober
deathblow - last breath


Pg. 5 alternate title

Fortune
500 words
(song about the woods and meadows
Outside LA
County)


Pg. 6

Teeth clenched, tongues
complaisant
For the imagined
pleasure matches the
dreamed-of-aftertaste
The juices are known
quantities
From the past lives/
lies of your eyes.
I grow hungry
er in ev
ery glance
teeth eat
themselves
split on
seeds
who grow
to fight again next life.


Pg. 7

I'm so tired
I have to exhaust myself
go days without stopping
before certain worlds
hum to me without
reservation. I candle
light burn inside
a church so lone
atop a hill for all to
see - a sun.


Pg. 8

You iron clad
tooth decay magnet
attired so for evenings
With jesters of royal
Breeding. Leading
Seeding high ground
watermelon song
attached


Pg. 9

why don't girls
sit on my face for long
my favorite song
I sing to them hurts
their ears
and pleases them
a secret hymn I sing to her
I pour
suspend
she too much purrs
nothing left is
hers
his + hers


My fingers curse
curve
words
Circuit-like
pervert
Pure


Pg. 10

scratch that
I've maimed
kidnapped extorted
aborted fetuses
of notebooks, you sea urchin,
you lynchpin
of the kettle handle.


Pg. 11

these geniuses
trapped in this
bottle made madness
an art form.
Formalized constancy
bridled + tamed +
leashed + whipped
that most tremulous hummingbird


Pg. 12

CPU - afterglow
belly up eyed askance
cast net
drag lake
board stiff
calamitous


Pg. 13

If I have any art
my art is transient
I do not want
poetry permanent


Pg. 14

silver faded
locks coal

sindow aging
cathair cast off

lips of Hades
entrails entree

ensemble absentee
tea tee
T cells free


Pg. 15

a penchant for
disaster
essential to his
matter
libidinous his master
a kitten licked and
sadder
than richer kids with
dads more
poor with gifts for
patchwork


Pg. 16

bullet over
blue sky
blue eyes capsized
Ahab overboard
abandon
a brand on
a band in
a box
fading


Pg. 17

Maritime
salt intake
gestate sea star
bottom feed but
shine shimmer
glitterbug
twilight
unnight captured
Mars afloat
the distance


Pg. 18-19

Blank Perfect Little
Butterfly wings spread
glorious
how I love thee
So well so deadly
I deface your awkward
blasphemous heretical symmetry



/Time looks
like/ a man/
And/ a womban/
With 2 hands\
between
them




1 DAY
At a
Time


I'll BURN You


Pg. 20

Starlight vs. Moonlight

Which do I love better

the moon for its singularity

of purpose.

or the stars for their

unity. Long life after

death.


PART 0



Pg. 21

IF I DIE THIS NIGHT
I'll Flash Like A Light
In the darkness the
distance for a second
but if I fall asleep
right here I'll dis
appear so what
if I went home I'd
sleep here I flicker__
flutter gone now|here|


Pg. 22

imaginings
are pictorial
not just lyrical
the visual makes my dick
hard. the sound makes me
want more. to scratch
and here the sound again.



I want to echo my
my laughter in the
Sound of wind


Pg. 23

If I could love you
unselfishly I'd hurl you
into ecstasy
until your lungs
tired of crying
evaporated long
ashen masterful
walls into open ends
incessantly


Pg. 24

I only dare think of you
On two occasions. Now or
Never.

If you love me
you will not wilt
you will only dry up
inside where it matters
where stars become legs
from which the sky
Vaults.


Pg. 25

1 DAY
I WILL UNTRAP
MYSELF from the cage of
MYSELF.



Pg. 26

I promise
my
self



I said I want my
poems to be picturebooks

I want my sanity
picked clean
(groomed by buzzards)
of oases


Pg. 27

One finds one's
Adaptability
Causeways
Stretched to
Good effect

Though i am no longer
scrawler, have graduated
to writer who is also
in this instance
a scratcher.


Pg. 28

better yet
I want poems as
pop-up books.
sticking up and
out into your face
unexpected
intrusive eaters of
elephant sized
space.



Pg. 29

a somber
silence

a meditative
stasis

these are the banishings

the excommunications

Of effeminacy

I accept without shame
Baldwin laying next to me now.



Pg. 30

A maniacal
strain
in any
compulsive
writer
writer comes out better
than artist but not as
good as poet - a title not
yet earned.


Pg. 32

The Reverse SIDE
HAS BEEN
BROUGHT TO YOU
BY THE ANTI-WAR
MILITIA 433rd
-|DIVISION|-



Pg. 33

salute the overlooked
(details) in the shaping
of categories . The winning
of semantic technical
on-paper victories.
celebrated in
typewritten Helvetica
ice words of
peacefireflies.

Sunshine Is Passive

[working on the title. (It could be worse. the title used to be "Lady, You're a Pimp". I get the idea I had behind that, which I'd like to still capture, but it doesn't really suit the piece, I felt after coming back to it later). feel free to give suggestions, show love or throw hate at the current one]


On a broken day
Where trees hang low
tired with sighs

You came to me
a constant no
that somehow rectifies

Entreaties and gifts
were not seeds you’d sow
they leapt like tears from my eyes
into your arms
when you turned to go
or return to a place never left
and somehow I died
and somehow I died
when I gave to you
what we couldn't feel
when you didn’t know



Though you never came
the weight of you did
balanced on my torso at night
and your fingertips ran
across the lids of my eyes
who'd swallowed all that they had cried.

My hand could’ve fit in your smile
Before you softened to sweet
And became like the butter on
Freshly made cornbread
Enriching all that you touch
Introducing my tastebuds
To gold
Like the summer did sand to the sun.

Base Brotherhood

"The consciousness of my own baseness has done nothing to reconcile me to the baseness of others. Nothing is more repugnant to me than brotherly feelings grounded in the common baseness people see in one another. I have no desire for that rank brand of brotherhood." - Milan Kundera

the moments after you

it's been more than two weeks since we last spoke
and there isn't a minute goes by i don't think of you
everywhere i go, i see someone with hair almost like yours
or a face that could be yours from a distance,
obscured by shadows or behind leaves of a tree
my heart starts to race, it becomes hard to breathe
i anticipate meeting you again
but then never is the face as lovely
or the hair quite right, quite as long and lustrous
even in this, a fantasy
a dream, a paradise
full of some of the most beautiful women a man can ever see
there is no one
but you

i want to hear your voice
and watch your bashful smile come over your face
as you laugh your adorable laugh
i want u to tell me to go and find papers at 3 in the morning
so you can roll your cigarette

i had a strange premonition
that when i watched your perfect little body
mount that bike and ride away from me
that i may never see you again
i didnt know why, but i felt it could happen

it hypnotizes and warms me to the core
its like a beautiful song
like the sound of spring awakening
like the sound of honey being born
or maybe if sunlight could sing
it would sound sort of like you

you are that gorgeous azure sky smiling
chocolate dancing into a million silken ribbons
cinnamon and cream
ecstasy and death

what it was like
to caress the nape of that perfect neck
and kiss that collarbone
soft as orchid
to hold that lobe of that ear between my lips so gently
and wrap my arms around your waist
and feel your supple femininity close against my body
makes a man sigh with longing....

everyone here says the letter H like "hate-ch"

i have to throw off this melancholy. this doubt. it won't be helpful in the days, weeks ahead. no. i must reject such feelings. yes, i miss my family. i love them..i miss my friends...i miss the familiarity of things, even those i hate, back home. but here i am. london. ready to move to barcelona. let me take this step. let me grow, let me be strong...im sad that im gone and that certainly the life i left behind is moving on without me. people may or may not still be where i left them..more often than not, they'll have vacated the place i left them in. i question the wisdom of this decision. i wonder how soon i will crack and beg to go home. a part of me wants to already. i know i can't. i haven't even seen the city of barcelona, havent even made contact with that mystical city. let me touch it, feel it, breathe it in. perhaps then my mind will change. my agitation and feelings of loneliness and discontentment will subside.

i had begun to spin in a poision cesspool at home. doing the same things. listening to the same arguments. lost in bitterness, routine, mundane motions. so now i've dared to dream. i've been bold enough to do something not many people in my position would've done. i never expected any great reward for doing so though. i must work. maybe once im working i'll be more at ease. i'll feel more fulfilled.

now im too idle. too free to dally and overthink. i miss feeling close to someone. i miss having someone understand me, hold me, know me, comfort me. i've made friends here, but i'll leave them soon. i thought i'd made a deep connection with one person, but that was fool's gold. perhaps i'm jaded by that. stunned by the impact of that. thinking i had found something to be my anchor, to keep me in touch with that feeling of home, only to be let down and let go so suddenly. it was too enticing to not grasp hold of, though i know i shouldnt have. and although i only did so for a moment...still it was foolish. it gave me a false sense of security, even for those seconds i believed in it. i felt yes...i have my cake and i can eat it too. i am away from home, in a new place, but here ive found home in you. a little slice of it at least. well now i have no slice left whatever. the giving and taking back of it has made my longing for home greater than it might've been otherwise. in fact, i would never have anticipated id feel the desire for things back home the way i do now until much later. i've had great fun here in london. but the fun doesn't mask the loss, the absence of the things i know and love, and the people so many times more than the things of course.

but so often, i feel in myself, that this needed to be done. good will come of this. i will learn from this. please just be strong and be brave, be smart and be aware. be open, but be cautious. do not lose yourself in confusion and frustration. breathe, clear your mind, and dig deep into yourself to find the way.

What we call the beginning is often the end

"What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph."

"We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time."

-Thomas Stearns Eliot