Yellow Light
You prepared yourself for defeat once again
and gathered
The ancient books of poetry and the pen
The bindings for your back, the candles,
“Hamlet’s” wanderings, “Guevara’s” sadness and his surly poster
The loyal pack of “Kents”,” Mozart’s” albums
You pack them into the bottom of your meager bag between
Your silence, your fragile papers,
Your submission, and the distance
You’ve turned off the phones and the nostalgia
To the south
You dive, you sail in your ship with your belongings and your frightening wrinkles
Towards the skies that bequeathed innocence to you until your passing away
Oh little one
Are you good at nothing but being consumed?
Red Light
What can you make today, stranger? In the desolation
of melodies you dwell. .. you aggravate the night. You walk across what you’ve built of the poems’ thorns, you sow delusions and claim that
she died of rhythm and meters!
You throw up the past on the body of
the violin
and withdraw into your philosophies and the lost spring.
It’s a difficult thing to be other than you
I know
There is no way to your advent except through someone else so hide inside yourself. Conceal yourself between your breaths for eternity.
Restrain yourself and leave the dream that would have you betray “I”
You, be you and no one
but yourself toys with your eyes today.
You are nothing but you
The violin.
There is no truth in your poem/the defeat except what your inspiration
believed of the meanings so embrace only your supplication and damn the despised counsel, saying
“Be as you like… I will not bow down
I want nothing but I so strip the grains of purity from the tawdry moon and get out of my way.
Ejaculate on what the sun has written of the autumn’s falsehood.
I am I.
I will not be except myself.”
And leave
…. when betrayal
Kisses you each dawn in your blood and in the poem
then pour out your blood at the end of the river and escape
from your moan in your stubborn songs.
As for the consuming dedication, it will not leave your eyes, because you will never be good at an art that lacks grief
Green light
Despite the wound’s completion you are still ignorant of everything the Beauty’s bag contains of dangerous mythical perfumes or varnish for nails, for eyes, and for the air
Another defeat slaps
Your face, and another sorrow weighs down your poetry, it’s not the last and you
Are still the sickly one with your aching back, so be careful… you became too weak to carry the bag.
“Thanks to my murderess and hello
To the dagger. .. welcome to silence
A guest that does not bore and a homeland…
Nothing after you is painful. To you I say I am sure that I am a bridge to the dream that I am unable to achieve, but I try, so forgive me. The dreams in my lines have paths unlike our reality. Feelings, not reason, embrace them. You are not satisfied with holy love or with dreams fenced in by a bit of ambition. I am the classical one, I refuse to emigrate to borders outside the protective center so accept me in a sentence or refuse me in a sentence. I’ve accepted that I will be a bridge for life, so cross over me to him, this gulf and that Europe…. From you I have the farewell and, in addition to the distance, a stab with which I am content. This is my blood, refine it, age from it wine and use it to flavor your harsh bread, scatter me in the book of mud I read perhaps a line will be pleased with me so I etch it upon my lips, a loyal friend and drinking companion… my rust on the rooms of the consulates in my drawn breath abandoned, and Paris scorns me, and embraces the contradiction entirely. Leave me the sorrows and go.
I am the most deserving of the wound.
You are not the first to betray my poems or the last of the stabbings. I spit in your heart twice now. I crucify what you’ve left behind and deny every letter of your exhale in my poem. I’ve bored of conforming to your mood, the color of your hair, the size of your breast, your refusal of my love for flowers and the flowing waves of “Fayrouz”, my strangeness in your embrace, my black coffee in “Carlos*” where your perfume is carved in the clouds of the water pipes. I’ve bored of my addiction to silence, of “I teach him archery every day,” and of the poems of rock, of leather, of tin, and of circling around a dream I myself will never reach, but I try to convince myself so refuse me in a sentence.
The price of your lipstick was my vigil in the hallways of “the Plaza**”, sleep on slivers of sponge in January, eating my standard crumbs, I intensify the arduous carving on the stones so that you can drink to your victory on the threshold of the airport /my beginning and my end. I’ve come with your visa to him. And I’ve placed a kiss on the passport.”
Love has different secret
that was hidden from you
Choose your torment in yourself and leave the dream that is loathsome to “I.”
