Sunset of Fear

Words may be the quickest art form
Just sit down and write

But is it simple?
Maybe Cortazar should have written instructions on
How to Write
Thanks to him I can now climb stairs and start to cry
and maybe I haven´t read far enough yet
Maybe he did teach us how to write well
Words are so easy to prey upon
they are quickly summoned
But if you are asked to do the telling
All of a sudden, a wall forms and nothing wants to find its way out
But, you tell yourself, just a minute ago I knew there was so much I wished to communicate
Where did it all go so quickly?
I knew I had a lyrical composition just waiting to exit
so why are my lips not moving and what is happening, just now, to my fingertips?
I dream about sounding as rhythmically alert and as compositionally apt
as all the poets of our world who simply...write
It does come easily to those who are filled by impressions
and to whom the world speaks with something meaningful to say

~
Tonight I came with the desire to write
My step quickened when I knew that my destination was a well of words
and the roped up bucket in my hand
there is always so much to share -
But it´s one thing to feel an inner urge to write
and another to find the right words
You Know when the words just fit
when you have hit the bull´s eye
there is a flow that sets in, inside, and the next word cannot appear rapidly enough
all those loose ends come together and make so much sense
oh - how lovely this sensation is of getting something akin to concrete
out of a feeling that runs deeply and at times appears too deep to extract
And then, I tell myself that words should come like a rush of air
whence others have come before and inspired one to think
just like when my mind wandered a desert, listened to its sounds
and maybe found a secret´s solution revealed


Maktub: It has been written


A writer has told the world that when a person wants something with all her heart
the universe will conspire to make this wish come true
Does it mean that everything in my life, so far, that has not come to fruition
and which I thought I had wanted was in fact
not clearly wanted by me?

~
The written note to the universal reader also states that our destiny and personal history
lies in reading the signs out there
well, maybe, if the King of Salem came to me and encouraged me to look for the treasure that is mine to have (if my actions say: I want)
and maybe, if the wind, and the desert, and the sun intoned a discourse and discussed with me
the existence and importance of the world´s soul that contains capital Love
and maybe if an Alchemist decided I was on the right track and worthy
to be accompanied and guided on my journey
but before all this, if indeed,I had had a Gemini dream side by side, and not the two when I was a child
then maybe I too would leave the metaphorical sheep I have guarded and nurtured so far
into someone´s care and set out with hope in my pocket
that now, I am truly realizing the pilgrimage toward my dream

~
And then there is the Cosmetic of our world, or otherwise put, the rule of all things,
that places me, like any other human, in direct contact with what rages deep within


How many times have you conversed with your inner self and enemy?


It seems like there are many of us who place our id outside ourselves
We create different identities for that ugly place within
and at times, how many times really, have we not wished we could silence it
let alone kill its ghastly grin?
To realize that you cannot escape the baseness that resides in you
It makes you maybe want to bang your head against the wall
And then the concept of hurting, killing, those we love the most...
The words that write about love often end up describing a tale of death
Beauty comes always with its opposite, or shall we call it its complement?
Goodness is wrapped in badness and I´ll always remember this line


¨I look at the dopeness of life and you at the whackness¨


We don´t realize how often we find ourselves consumed with that
which we wish not to accept
If we don´t acknowledge it, then it doesn´t exist
and yet, in our eternal partial ignorance, we tend to forget
that what is silenced remains and lingers
and festers and from one moment to the next
finds a way onto the page of our life
You cannot escape it forever: ten years, twenty years
and before you know it, you are sitting at an airport,
left waiting for a flight - delayed
and an obnoxious stranger starts a conversation that brings you in contact
with the most abject truths about your being
that all you can do and want to do is reject it
even if it may mean your own death - this, simply, cannot be me
The enemy wants you to kill him for at least by killing him you´ll know with certainty
whether this atrocity was you
But you continue to refuse - I will not do your dirty work, If I kill you, I´ll end up in prison
I want to be free

~
Free - the enemy laughs tears - free
Free of what?
Free of the words that will endlessly, grindingly, mercilessly form inside your mind
remind you of that certain uncertainty as to whether or not
I am you or
If hopefully you and I
are not one and the same
You call that free
...
From page to screen, I behold a Sunset calling words
Such beautiful words I wish they had been mine to create, to hold, and to give
They have resonated in my ears since 2004, when first they entered from within
I was delighted and felt ready to compose
- responses and extensions of words in their honor
Word ribbons I wanted to write to show my appreciation
I wanted to grow a garden of words that would add rays to the dying sun
Your words are perfect on a day that could and would have been
like any other day save for the encounter that shoved normalcy into a corner
For it is you - why didn´t you come that day?

~
Life made up of words is all about detail - a love of details
your details are words that want to be born
and yet, mine are shy and often remain silent
There is a whisper that pierces lonely nights
How much do I wish the halting gesture had been seen and felt
There is so much in you
I still want to watch and discover
a future waterfall, a cascade, an avalanche, a cataclysm of written love
that lie suspended and then exposed in three, four, nine years´time
As you can tell, I need instructions, for I do not know where to begin
yet I know where I´d like it to end
if all is written, I shall have faith and listen to the wind that has been combing the streets
since now
and I shall be brave and talk to my enemy, speak of truce

maybe there is such a thing
as a neur-otic eviction note, and last but not least
there may be a sunset of fear and in its wake
all my words will spill with ease
and I shall laugh, and in that moment steer a new beginning