joys without disguise

 There is so much absence.

in the thread with which I weave my story

so much thread absence

on the needle with which I cut my memory

that, before oblivion arrives

in the autumn of a long deceptive poetry,

embroidering spring lyrics

I want to weave your presence in my victory.

...........................

A crack.

Today I woke up and I was dead ...

there was a crack in my time.

and on my chest,

like this broken doll ...

tar killed.

You were looking without knowing what.

Maybe it was in your shadow or was it me?

I do not think you passed.

as if my corpse were invisible.

Or did you avoid seeing me like that, inactive.

they never did well in duels.

Today I woke up and I was dead ...

there was a crack in my time.

and on my chest,

like this broken doll ...

tar killed.

A vortex of black smoke exploded

with a smell of distance and abandonment.

The storm left my eyes.

the sternly drawn smile

... and you passed.

without recognizing the dagger or the farewell.

.................................

Special moments, so unique,

for better or worse it is always,

to make us what we are and

in memory of our skin:

When we scratch our knees

first day of school, vacation,

this kiss and goodbye,

our children or the children of others

an accomplice look and a smile

a dance, frustration, meetings.

Time passes and every moment

there is a murmur in the wind

or snowflakes in the hair,

water falling from the students ...

writing our story

deaths and births,

with a lost look in space

busy hunting moments and,

suddenly, we realize that today,

      

crying out of love,

it is the best weather ...

.............................................

Today I do not define myself.

change with the wind, I run with time

I wake up with red clouds or.

with the noses of paradise stuck in my hair,

stars sing or rain wallets

to sleep in the memory of a skin

and to die to love, the night of nothing.

Today I do not define myself.

I live in freedom from uncertainty

chasing crystal swans, so unlikely.

There is no reality to clinging to

or a trusted person to support a project

there is no light, no dream, no voices to follow.

Today I do not define myself.

Discard the known

contemptuous reality or beliefs

I hate the happiness I promised.

today I stun my idea of ​​being myself

renounce any kind of protection.

in any system or commitment

and control myself.

I drive my vague freedom.

I cancel accredited time and routine clocks.

I declare a permanent strike against melancholy.

and a daily carnival for my joys ...

from time to time, I collect stardust ...

Today I have no definition.

...........................................

My poems have few things.

Like my life

Some loves are stored in cardboard and silk chests

What else can I do;

You can not put many things in poems.

only a few butterflies fluttered

and they left my stomach like a cloud of cotton.

like an immeasurable drum.

I also give them some hope for renewed love.

joys without disguise

of the punishments they hide by slipping into excitement,

from time to time, a red tenderness

full of chocolates and baby fingers

My lyrics have children I do not name.

have grandchildren playing hops

And colored planes that paint curves in the sky of my poem

My lyrics have few things, almost nothing.

since I decided to accept a weak love

since I closed the door and I do not know how to open it ...

since I am a traveler of absence.

Basically, I do not remember writing my poems.

When I look at my memory,

I see fluff from the bottom of my bag

and plastic glasses with traces of champagne,

flowers withered after taking the photo,

colored lights that did not turn on

many moons, rains in Paris ...

autumn in the chest, the suns in the eyes,

and some scars that few know how to see.

Today I give you my colorful planes.

those who paint curves in the sky of my poem.

I give you bottles with indecisive messages.

the rocks I picked up on my travels and mixed up unclassified

I give you smiles in various tones and landscapes

compiled with my camera

all wrapped for a gift in my poem.