The September-October issue should be enough to keep you busy for a while. Enjoy.

Cooking

Over a boiling pot

we wait for small epiphanies

bemused by the stillness

of the branches outside.

Do our black cats make us

witches? Shall we burn?

The Inquisition says we shall.

The Weather

Sure, let’s talk about the weather

like our lives depend upon it

like our crops will fail

and famine will hit

our fatty brains.

Relieved that it won’t rain

we’ll go for a walk

step on our horseshit

and still come home miserable.

Better stay inside, watch a movie.

110/116

Between birthday parties

and treasure hunts

I have to explain

why I made him and

affirm I’ll still love him

after I die.

I’d never thought

I'd give myself up

but here we are

swearing by Jedi honor,

shovelling sand in ecstasy.

Nothing much in it

but abundant poetry.

Seaside Resort

Don’t scorn the floral patterns

and the doughnut-shaped waists

nor the high-pitched laughter

and the fuzzy stares.

Footsteps echo louder

at the end of August

and pining mixes with the smell

of fresher fish and ice-cream cones.

Grandpa

Old bones assembled by magic.

Nothing else seems to hold.

We all scolded him for lying

but he was the conqueror

of the seven seas

in my five-year-old mind.

He instilled in me two shipwrecks

an abstract love for Argentina

and going rogue under fake names

in the US in the 50’s.

The giant is folding in his seat:

An overripe camellia flower

that forgot to fall apart.

[You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]

Poetry Issues has skipped a beat and there is no July-August issue. However, this is for a good reason besides the holiday slack. I was invited by Alex Witter to participate in a mail-art exhibition and I've been busy answering the hard question posed by the theme: "What makes you happy?"

Silence

A rare walk-in gem

shutting out the noise.

A meditation as deep

as death, with openings

from where to emerge fearless

and wise. Darkness as peace

for wild, overexposed eyes.

Wild Flowers

They come uninvited.

Pink and purple perseverance.

Hideous unsanctioned seeds

making no plea to the bees.

I let them take over the garden. 

It’s always the stranger

that moves you forward.

Driving

I get this funny feeling

that there’s enough air

in my lungs, the certainty

that we will make it.

Brush strokes rushing

past, tangled in your hair

the world, a bonfire simile

lit by midday heat.

If you try breathing

your body simply dares

to ache, making getaway

from its weary myths.

Your Laughter

Not the reserved, polite one

but the one that gushes out

letting your teeth show

thrusting your head back

blocking your breath –

bouncing 

      from wall 

to wall. An echo

fighting dust from dust to dust.

Alex Witter has set up a great inventory of all artists and works participating in this upcoming exhibition, where you'll find amazing work from artists from all over the world.

The May - June issue is out! Here you go:

American Football

Back and forth.

Circles disguised

in straight go routes.

Until you get things

right

things get you.

Until routes go straight

in disguised circles,

forth and back.

In Red

Those toes in the shower

I’m looking down to

belong to a Lynchian heroine.

They say depersonalization

results from violence

and I ponder over the form.

Do not knock, just enter.

Privacy is a luxury

only spoiling a good plot.

Alekaki

My friend likes the number eight.

It completes her broken parts

and promises the unity of one.

You will find her crouching

among quitting and lighting it up

on a white pile of unironed roles.

She’s the colour blue, as found

in nature: A wondrous reflection

of elusive light. A life of words.

Ode to Nothing

As a child I thought

I controlled the wind. Perhaps

the wind controls me.

Before great sorrow

the air stands still. I know then

something is coming.

Dry petals falling

like snow. Who’d have thought death would

be so beautiful.

Unhealthy are

Your stress relief habits

and the junk you eat.

How the world treats you

and what you think of it.

The screens you watch

and the dust you breathe.

But tomatoes won’t

save you from cancer.

Treating the symptom is

not the answer.
Wars will not be prevented

by treaties. And nobody likes kiwis.

 [You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]

Since the previous issue was all free verse, there's a fair share of formality in this one: "Retribution" is a pantoum (which happens to be one of my favorite forms), "Northern Beach in Bref Double" a bref double of course, and "Coming at the Florist" a golden shovel. Poetry Issues #15, out today:

Retribution

Memory should not be exercised.

Like a packet of quit smokes

it better remain undisturbed

in a locked box in the closet.

Like a packet of quit smokes

I hide your grayscale picture

in a locked box in the closet

in all-encompassing silence.

I hide your grayscale picture

mummified and fossilised

in all-encompassing silence

like an angry ancient god.

Mummified and fossilised

you better remain undisturbed

like an angry ancient god.

Memory should not be exercised.

Northern Beach in Bref Double

They arrived at the haven of bronze sun gods

and said: “We want five ships of fine sand.”

The pale seafarers got nasty sunburns but

were back home in time for the Indian summer.

They strewed it wavy, golden and silvery and

the children combed it by hand for better shells.

Even the fish came out of the sea to check it

when the workers headed home for hot supper.

Once, a lion’s mane jellyfish fell for a seagull

who was cruising the shore for leftovers at

a crowded spot. Before she died dehydrated

they both agreed the sea was their mother.

The children relished at the beast’s bad end

but a sudden limp burdened the seagull’s strut.

B Sides

Inside red apples fat worms inside the letterbox

a rageful cat inside dreams spiraling labyrinths

inside a struggling dignity marginalization inside

a deep-chest scream confinement inside unvarnished

sentences run-down desires inside the doll another

doll inside delusion the need to escape inside.

Sociology or That’s How You Rule the World

Your affordances will be reduced to one

as ecology will variate between

plastic A and concrete B.

As long as you let them engage with

stable fables peasants will trust

that one day they’ll be kings.

Turn sacred symbols into commodities

rob the fruits of their juicy essence

but give the natives beads.

Coming at the Florist

The iron door was left open by nobody

and the black cat assured me it had not

been her. Had I sniffed in the shop even

the slightest trace of evening rose, the

doubts would’ve dispersed. With such rain

it was hard to tell. But only my woman has

this sweet marmite blood that shoots such

piercing scents of love through the small

pores of her sweaty, rosy, cosy hands.

 [You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]

This twelfth issue, whose distribution started today, completes the first cycle of Poetry Issues. It has been a full year of poetic expression and I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I did. From now on the publication will become bimonthly, in order to dedicate some time to other works.

You can read this issue below:

April’s Fool

It’s a joke, all this rain,

and I’m reminded

only by date that this

is the advent of spring.

And I envy the trees.

They seem to possess

the right time for everything:

Like clockwork they go

through winters and springs

accepting, always in majesty,

each turn of season that I

try, strong-headed and vain,

to manipulate and command.

You refused to hold my hand.

Life Without Temptation

I didn’t die nor resurrect

at the age of thirty three.

I’ve lost my chance.

And now I watch myself

mature to death –

an unappealing apple

without an Eve’s hand

to save me from counting

how many meters

before I hit the ground.

Afterwards

Pestered as they were by what happens next

they left their sentences undone, hanging

annoying as fruit flies, unsure of their direction

overwhelmed by the vast possibilities ahead.

But once, fueled by a whole night’s drinks

they raced into the pink-gold dawn that painted

all their hopes anew. That’s when they learned

that language is redundant when your soul

is smooth and it’s not only youth that burns with instinct.

Letter

I don’t have to tell you

that we are not what we seem.

You know it better than I do.

Your chatoyant eyes reflect some

passion you dismiss. I have proof

in the shivers I get when you come

to have a coffee under my roof

and rehearse your staged words.

Still, I hear nothing but the truth.

It must be an augmented chord,

what tunes us in each other.

Life before you was a chore.

I’m a moth heading to the lantern

for what is love but death, dear lover?

In Therapy

Most days I don’t remember my dreams.

It’s just that I often wake up with a sigh.

I’m quite hard and detest looking back.

Cicadas and lilac skies don’t amuse me.

In my youth I grieved imaginary deaths

far as I was from the need of an afterlife.

I found purpose in the half-time. I was

meant to be the eye of the universe.

[If you would like to learn more about the Poetry Issues project, read this.]

The distribution of the 11th issue began today. Read the contents here:

You, Yes, You

I’m scared of your dark potential.

It unwinds serpentine

as you avoid collision and

– god forbid! – correlation

with other bodies on the street

all too efficient from having had

brushes with perceived fiends

but mostly eager to possess

a shallow pride you defend

by throwing tantrums of

unchecked greed and insecurity.

The Wanderer

Longing

often comes

in strange shapes.

Californian vineyards

and Australian seas

I haven’t seen you.

I don’t know if

I’ll get a visa for my dreams.

Of all the things

I left back home

I miss the hills.

The Drama-King

“I’m alone,” he cried

and pulled his hair

in desperation

from the small seat

on his high throne

but never looked beyond

his own reflection.

Victim

On the up side,

I’m not afraid of darkness

anymore. Horror

found me in broad daylight

and the hand was known.

In the Inside Pocket

An item or two of no importance.

An acorn or a corner of a leaf.

A marble and a hair clip.

Found poems meant to guide

and keep us grounded

respecting that we once

were children too.

By Your Sickbed

To attest the fact that

“our life is not our own”

I invent bunches of meaning

and lay them clustered

in the functions I perform.

I can be described at best

as mediocre or even arrested

in a wild adolescence of feeling.

But being given

one

more

chance

at efficient action, I twist

with abandon the wet towel

that will cool your forehead.

[If you would like to learn more about the Poetry Issues project, read this.]

Poetry Issues has just reached double digits! Enjoy this tenth issue right here:

February

The breeze stirs and then it moves us forward

with tangled hair and whirling splintered thoughts

and locks us in the chase of portentous

shapes in the low clouds. The soft grass writhes to

break free and its crystal prison of frost

stays relentless in its albinity.

But there is something in the lengthening

of light and the sonnets of the swallows

that travel from the lands of velvet warmth

that begs me to endure and join the strife.

It’s in the slight murmur of the willows

when the grey skies push upon their backs and

instead of lamenting they sing: “Perhaps

this isn’t such a bad month to be born in.”

Bus Commuters

Not the servants of a dark empire

of fast-drying concrete and steel

with hands and faces worn

by the tiredness

of a joyless looping life

but princes and queens

of flourishing kingdoms of the sand

with peach orchards where horses run free.

Distance

There is a longer

space between your words and mine.

We are diverging.

Just Watch

The history of

mankind is nothing but a

plucky fist raised high.

But now the fight is over

the color of our new couch.

Rectitude

Trying to rectify the wreckage

caused by the rectangularity

of the wretched electorate

the pious asked the rector

who exclaimed that there

was nothing to correct.

Anatomy

She ordered the surgeon

to remove her organs

and take pictures of her innards.

He was then asked to put them back,

and the money was good and the life

was tough. “I don’t understand,”

she said later, ignoring the sore

while her eyes still searched

on the photographic paper.

“My liver looks perfectly fine

but, where is my soul?”

Student with Purple Glasses

“And where do you dispose

the oil from the frying pan?”

She asked the landlady,

sincerely worried about the lack

of environmental planning.

There was a halo of smoke

rushing around her platinum hair:

“Just pour it on your trash.

It’s excellent sauce

for the lunch of the seagulls.”

[If you would like to learn more about the project, read this.]

Poetry Issues #9 is out today. You can also read it here:

January

Shambling in his old-man slippers

out to the humble unkempt garden

he checked closely with the first dew

in the hanging cheap-blue plastic net

for puny craters on the smooth lard

planets of seeds and dried mealworms

to see if any sparrows had come

or if he would spend the winter alone.

His Greatest Act

He had the mane, alright.

But with the untowardly stretched

pink satin shirt and strassy pants

none of the kids could really tell

that there was an old defeated lion

and not a great illusionist trying

to escape the burning iron cage.

New Paganism

We are so eager to become

nothing but bodies

freed from the hold of endless excuses.

Carnal pleasures aren’t for the fainthearted.

We are so eager to find peace

in the white noise

of a hangover brain. We aren’t ashamed.

This is only a primordial ritualistic instinct.

Quiet people are afraid of Chaos

but they seem to forget

that he gave birth to their cherished Day,

that wry officeholder with the glowing teeth.

The Gigolo Triptych

Courting

She dismissed it as

disruption. A waterfall

in a dried up land.

Kiss

He lowered his head

as his hands smoothed along in

search of her wallet.

End

She invested in

a more trustworthy asset:

Church-cut dignity.

A Love Story

In the heart of the city

that doesn’t have a heart

I followed the lamplights

for one last time.

The oracle had told me

that a black river ran

through you

and hope had to cross it.

I paddled up the mucous dream-stuff

up to the city’s poisoned hills.

You were nowhere to be found.

[You can read about the project and find other issues here.]

Something appropriate for the festive season ahead: Poetry Issues #8:

A Viewing

That house was shivery –

a perfect scenery for Ibsen’s ghosts

yet unfit for a life denying symbolism.

I opened the closet and feared

that the walls would fold upon me.

The knobs yielded shaken by their own

drive to be taken away by a stranger.

Even the light that washed the living room

felt artificial – planted on a painted sky.

Across the street the century-old red bricks

reflected like props fixed on rough beams

resisting being blown off by some eastern

wind accelerating from the northern sea.

The Reindeer Season

Wrap your gifts with caution and don’t forget

the love. Contrary to what’s expected

after a certain age, you may indulge

for once in the high art of not giving

a damn about all that time has taught you.

Try to embrace the world’s firm delusions

as in insistence it keeps on turning,

hoping and buying, elaborately

hiding how all that keeps us human dies.

Let’s cannibalize on that. For here comes

the deluge of the new, and you have to

contain and fabricate the birth and light

– warm and wistful interruptions to the

circle of the coldest, darkest season.

Crisis

Thus we name the end

when it’s as slow as tango.

The deep snake pit when

we are halfway down the slide.

The fast, shallow breath

of our shredded, fatigued lungs.

The long agony

setting on unsettled sleep.

Demented

“It deteriorated rapidly.”

“What did?” She asked and

suspended her pointer mid-air

as if checking the wind.

In this awkward drawing room

that orange vase felt familiar

as a tip-of-the-tongue word.

“His health of course,” said

the visiting niece, sensing that

something was off. “Oh, that,” she

smiled and her gaze followed

the curved loops of the passing birds.

The Victory of Existentialism

The sly ancient mind

first in linguistic novelty

ripped essence out of

the hull of existence

frantic at the knowledge

of its own impending death.

But even millennia after

the invention of religion

and its comforting visions

a dying man still holds onto

an increasingly difficult life

like a toddler that despairs

over giving up its diapers.

[Find other issues and read more about the project here.]