Glass Jumble

molding,
need heat and suffering…

glass… heat… Phillip Glass, a pause between sounds is also music,
what’s broken?

haven’t written for a while…
heart becomes glass before it is shattered.

grieving, lost…
my pup gained weight again… heavy, dense, transparent or not, neither outside nor inside… borax… silica… SiO2hard to unlearn what was already learned.

need poison to make it thin and strong… cations of heavy metals, those gorgeous colors, chelating… terrified watching that fast absorption… those toxic beauties… Elemental Analysis… vials… chemically inert gloves but I had still doubted their protection, fans, and the sterile smell of death.

birds bang their heads right on the glass window, the wall of deception… what’s behind?
unreachables… break it to reach, blood required in the process.

most of wine glasses have been broken over time, I hate cleaning up broken glasses, Riedel… wine only tastes good in a fine glass, flutes, bubbles… I used to like it…
but now, if I open a bottle, half will be wasted.

dare, reach, break, bleed, reclaim…
drink half and throw away the rest.

<August 2nd, 2018>

How calm the hour is… do not go back to sleep

“Render enigma to enigma, enigma for enigma.
Lift what is mystery in yourself to what is mystery in itself.
There is something in you that is equal to what surpasses you.”

– Paul Valéry –

The things that I love torture my soul, but tremendous energy is in there. That is equal to me, surpasses me, and nullifies me.

hopelessly hopeful unrealistic visceralists

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“And the colors?

 

 


a shitty abstraction what’s left.”

 

 

“And then Norman said: it has nothing to do with the visceral realists, asshole, you haven’t understood a thing. And I said: well, what does it have to do with, then? And Norman, to my relief, stopped looking at me and concentrated on the road for a few minutes, and then he said: it has to do with life, with what we lose without knowing it, and what we can regain.

– in “The Savage Detectives, by Roberto Bolaño – 

It is my sickness that I am always drawn to the beauty of uncurable sadness… and I am almost jealous over their purposefully purposeless blind passion for life.

 

all the weird days on the calendar

vacant,
vacancy.
facing myself in the empty space
comforts me,
with its strangely familiar aloneness.

all the weird days on the calendar
I happened to be there.
he smiled a boy’s smile
I felt that it was his shadow, a playful little boy inside
but I didn’t reach out my hand, let him be there for a while.

a slow driver,
my son knows I’m speeding all the time
the right speed bores me, and I know I shouldn’t speed, but…
let the moon decide
the velocity… the car, the life, the night… it always comes back to the same place anyways.

dog sleeps,
his pink belly up and down
warm paws, soft breaths
may peace be with him
and also with the audience watching him.

when I was on the track,
everyone felt fast as if they would pass me unless I passed them, and I was the fast runner.
I stopped at one point, walked back
and sometimes I am upside down.
life, full of extraordinaries in the ordinaries.

<July 13th, 2018>