Try to Remember That There is Kindness in The World.

Try to remember that there

is kindness in the world.

Try to remember,

because it is too easy to forget.

Try to remember

the street named

for Waterloo.

Make it a memory

and stretch it like a sky,

buy for it stars

that they sell for cheap

down the street

that leads back home,

so that from there

you can start running again,

knowing,

that there is kindness

in the world.

Because there is kindness in the world,

you have to remember that
you have to try
not to be sad

you have to forget

you have to start
you have to cry

you have to try

to remember

that there is kindness in the world.

God of Rocks

There is a story told,
to kids who aren't that old,
that when Jacob, the patriarch, chose twelve stones for a bed,
the stones all fought to be under his head.

So God, who has mercy on rocks and twigs,
decided that this is one He needs to fix.
In a quick run,
He made all rocks one
and the problem was done.
Then with powers that earned him the title "Almighty",
He made sure that all the rocks were comfortable and tidy.

Then Jacob woke up
and raised a nation,
that worshipped the God of Rocks without hesitation.
And even when that nation was being tortured and burned,
God wasn't concerned,
because all the rocks in the world
were getting along.

House of Escher

I woke up and knew
that I will build my house,
based on a sketch
by M. C. Escher.

Everybody laughed,
like they did to Noah.
Only this time,
God was on their side.

The boys and girls
who kicked the sand castles of their youth
so that they can build pyramids
out of their emptied drinking glasses,
laughed to the beat of the newest music.
And the old man down the street,
who was the manager of Hilbert's Hotel,
scoffed when he saw
my Escher sketch.

But I dreamt on
those dreams that were mummified
in the drinking glass pyramids
that were collapsed into each other.

I started my Escher house,
Still following the rules.
Even Pythagoras would have been fooled.
And the guests from Hilbert's hotel
who came over to see,
didn't know what it's like to be
living in a house built
according to Escher and me.

Nobody counted my stairs
to check where it goes.
And the girl I met by the Mobius Strip
who stayed for the night,
and together we broke a gazillion rules of symmetry,
never asked about the extra flight
of stairs leading back to my bed.

And in the morning
when I looked at us
the other way,
I saw that the space between us
was the real image.

Because this is how Escher works and goes,
you turn a face upside down
and the eyes become a nose.

Conversations

I once met God,

we had a long conversation,

about all his short answers.

I once met a friend,

and we spoke for a short time,

about the long time that passed.

I once met a woman,

and we spoke a lot,

about our little things.

And once, I met myself,

and I spoke nothing,

of everything I knew and did.

The Library Collection.

I’m in the library

It’s where I want to be

Here I’ll find my bliss.

Between the walls lined with books

Whose covers I won’t kiss.

This place is scary,

Now that my librarian died,

I hide amongst the bookshelves

And shield myself with the stacks

Of never rebound books.

There is no Book of Life in this collection.

Just a library of struggle 

And a bibliography of attempts

And a useless reference work.

The catalogues can give direction

And the descriptions can be read

But they offer small satisfaction. Because 

the synopsizes are misleading

For those who are reading

The receding texts of yesteryear.

As I stroll down the isles

Judging books by their covers

My mind starts spinning 

In the google of ideas.

I begin looking for the illustrated version,

With the diagrams and charts.

Who am I kidding?

By scanning the miles

Of organized piles

For the Book of the Living.

Where are the writers?

The editors? The illustrators?

And where is my librarian?! 

Come be my guide, in those corridors

Of endless information.

Show me the route to my shelf

So I can see the text

That guides the perplexed

Out of this forest of scribes.

I’m looking for life

Illustrated and annotated

By the expert in the field.

But in the library nobody can hear you think.

If you ascended that ladder

You already sacrificed the matter

At the alter of blank pages and drying ink.

The smoothness of those sheets tickle my fingertips

The letters dance like a tango in rehearsal

And the books spines smile to me 

Like a lover in a dream that lasts too short.

Yeah, life was an open book, once upon a story

Then it became an unfinished piece of work

And now it’s a project that still has no name.

I promise to write, I promise to read.

These commitments only made sense before I came.

The library day ends at the start of the one to come

That still gives me few hours 

To search the towers

For the Book of Life

I know I won’t find.

I hear people in the cafeteria

Caught in a laughing hysteria about milk that spilled

They will never understand;

They never met

The librarian I killed.

A Girl Named Desire.

She's young like me
we met in a parking lot
filled with two-passenger cars.

I told her my name and asked her hers
and like Jacob's angel, she refused to tell.
I tried to see what I can get out of her
as she was standing with one foot on the ground and one against the car wall.
She wasn't like Jacob's angel; she wouldn't even give me a bruise.

Form.

I worship form with all my soul.

When I walk down the street I see forms
molded yet folded in the whirlpool of groups.
Forms fresh and old rising and falling
with the material of it's composition.

Material and form are together a pantheon
from where gods leave and worshippers enter.
In and out, surrender and escape, in an undefined search;
closer and further away from the shape.

Form is a Godless pantheon.
The aesthetic of the shrine
makes you believe that inside
is a God confined
Who in return for your sacrifice
will redeem your mind from that which led you
to the configuration of He

Materials are in the streets waiting for a composition,
to be confined to the lines
of a music sheet.
Materials burst out of mountains
in the eruptions of volcanos
and harden at the bottom of fossil layers.

Form can be a limited God
of Material and Mind,
endowing the bushes with a fire
and the anatomy with an allure
to get to the leviathans to climb a mountain
and enter the frame that promises only its enslavement on the outline
of the shore of structure.

Material is man's alley,
Naked and soft, just part of a whole
A single member of the choir.
Materiel goes on the alter of fire
polished and cut sacrificing to the goal
of an outlinning plan.

Form is no prison
you're confined when your outside
and the mistake is in your sculpted eyes
pointing to a prism whose rainbows deny the original white light.

Form is Mind and Mind is Me
I stand before Forms everyday watching as if
it's a tombstone with words to tell the by passer that which it frames,
or perhaps like an architectural feat
telling the story of the house
and the people you'll meet
inside.

But Form doesn't go so far
It tricks and licks your cheek
while stroking your back
In a storm of adrenaline.

Form is Mind
Mind is Me
formed by material
and materialized by form.