12

the emerging of light,
and the breadbasket of a bounty
placed before my hands,
the hands, the palms, the fingernails,
the pristine nails, the clarity of them,
the touch of the nails against smooth bodies of skin,
the skin, the soft wrapping of the nails,
the quiet wrapping of the palms against the seams
of my body, against the outline, the stitches that trace the outline and contours of the inside,
running of the fingers down the core of legs,
slow touchings on the embracing body being borne by the embraced,
the hairs stand by their ends and dwindle like threads,
the threads of my loins that move as minutes pass into hours, into weeks, into months, into years,
the face becomes hard and boiled over,
the aging face wears itself,
face that is young, that is soon to be old;
it will look forever the way it looks as it sees the face of you,
of eternal time shown in a face, the intervals of the face, the bone of the face warily accepting the mortality of being a face,
the opposite face,
the face of yours,
hugs my felt tip hairs,
nestles my deepest hairs,
i stand on ends,
your yellowed face melts my being,
i am a phosphorous flame,
enabled to burn,
the end, the root of the sun,
the taste of wheat amongst the open fields,
encompassing the length of miles,
trail, stream, life giver, sustainer, and supporter of words,
cultivator of youth, divinity of youth,
your face sparks reflections,
your face enables history, veins to flow and to run,
lips that chisel the hardness of age and the current of wind blown from your breath as it sucks into my mouth, the wind, the air that i breathe,
my soul is blown back into me,
i can feel myself breathe from the inside,
the body is lifted, the soul is made indent,
the etchings could never wither,
you are not mechanical time,
time as an abstraction, that beats measurably,
a constructed artifice of human heart,
you are the continual time,
the time that is not aware of itself,
time that simply is,
epochs are constructed out of your wind,
the same wind that every face knows,
the crispness of your wind,
blow into mouths and indented souls,
cornucopia of wheat,
sustain life to my presence,
brick layer to my body,
put me down to rest,
on the green dewy grass,
lay my body there,
and build foundations on top of me,
monuments may be erected over me,
and roads may pave themselves above my soil,
let cars pass above me,
and let plants grow on my nourishing top soil,
giver of life,
founder of my body,
open your petite mouth and blow air into me,
let my wind exit,
let my wind be fueled by the wind of your mouth,
let your wind be the calming orange of a setting sun,
let your wind be the spark of winter and the birds that migrate south,
let your wind be the the birth of a newborn babe, and let her suckle the napes of her mother,
let the wind plant the atmosphere of living,
you who gives all life,
the blood of history flows from you,
dead bodies walk above you,
on your never withering top soil,
brick layer,
mouth of the sky,
speak to me and absorb me,
you ignite fountains from below me,
and my heart tremors in your awe,
brick layer,
life giver,
sustainer of words,
inspiration of divinity,
woman of the night,
woman of the day,
woman of the sea,
woman of the sky,
bring forth yourself into me,
and never exit.

11

and i love your mouth,
and the way it presses to me,
touches the ends of my lips,
absorbing the smoothness,
it is like that of the joining of two worlds,
that have come together,
that have proclaimed themselves as one.
from opposing hemispheres,
two worlds have touched mouths,
from across oceans,
their waves have swallowed each other,
and have overflowed,
how the jubilation sings when your mouth touches mine,
the suction of your air into my breath,
as breaths join breaths,
and a unified breathing ensues,
the hardness of my lips that had not been touched,
and the smoothness of yours and mine,
when they had,
touched for the first time,
under stars,
under moon,
we kissed,
and how i love when you always kiss me.

10

Walk with me in the morning,
That we both arise from sleep,
The winking clouds prohibited me,
An obstruction, where I was not to see.

Walk with me over the landscape,
Let the sun join us through an open window sill,
Never disable me from seeing,
Never let the wind crush my back and frost bitten chest,
Never let the sky pour its rain onto me,

Let my morning hands grow to you,
As a flower, fed from the enriching Sun,
That its rays find me.

Sleep with me in the midnight,
Breathe on me,
Mark my body with the scalpel of your mouth,
And never let me pierced by thorn,
Never let my back side brush against the harsh wood,
The cones that seep through my side,

Tickle me with your feet, petunias, rose blossom,
Stare onto me with the well defined eyes of the midnight,
Oh, and the way you curl you lips,
And your teeth bite the outside,
The method of your face,
The way it speaks,
So innocently,
Speaks to me,
When there is not a word to speak,
And the way you say that I love you.

Oh, how my head rests in your lap,
And how you massage my cheekbones,
With your rose scented palms,

Walk with me in the morning, and sleep with me in the night,
So that I may be present with you,
Never absent,
II


I had left, I had scarcely left a footstep or an imprint,
I had the tussle of leaves blown onto me;
A breath that had made itself absent from me at that night,
I supposed that I would sleep alone, and I would lie there,
On the dampened mattress and the putrid ceiling that cover,
Room, floor, door, wall,
I had left, but I never wanted it to be that you left,
Or that I left,
Because I had a clarity of vision,
That I would always walk amongst your footstep,
And I would always receive your mooned eyelids,
That sink into my throat,

I did not want to sleep alienated,
But it is only hope, that you wrote about,
And that I read from you,
That can not escape even the most dimmest,
The most mundane,
The rapturous thunder,
How its song like a sickle,
And made the winds churn into frightened distress,
I pull the covers down over my face,
With only the hope that you spoke of,
To enrapture me forever more,

But, I had left,
Scarcely marking an indentation into the ground,
I was absent from body or mind,
But I could not see you there,
I wanted you to be as the one that danced into the fields,
Of poppies, of marigold, of wheat,
And to sing a harmonious song,
That you are in tune with nature,
That you are the life blood of me,



III

You had woke sleep up with the moistened breath of,
Rainwater, garland, roselet, petunia,
I think that you had called my name,
Because you had seen me absent there,
That I was not of myself,
That I was nothing,
It seems that you were my rescue,
And that, if I was drowning,
And ocean breath filled my innards,
You would obtain me,
And your hands would sprout sunflowers,
And I would take them,
And I would be thrown onto the beach,
And how I would kiss you after the rescue of me,
And how I would,
And how I would always remember,
That you were the hope that was calling me from the crags of rocks,
And from the rays of sun,
That was ever so eagerly,
Trying to find its way amongst me.

9

Every night I write,
I pass the days with my pen,
hand in hand,
as it writes on blank paper,
as it fills the void of your absence,
Lover that is absent,
Lover that has filled me,
That has revitalized my soul,
my body, and my mind.
Every night I write, so that I may never forget

you,
so that I may always hold you,
whether with the marks of my pen,
or through the inner recesses of my mind,
Lover you will always have marked a spot in me,
That has traced and has been imprinted deep within

my soul,
Lover the fire you have sparked in me,
The warmth in me,
Every night I write,
So no matter where I am,
whether on the cold eve of winter,
or the sweltering sun of summer,
the quiet rain
the disquiet thunder storm,
Every night through the eons do I write,
to forever hold you,
to forever keep you,
and this way,
this way that I write,
is to keep peace with myself,
and to keep loving you,
Every night I write, so that I,
am never absent from you.

8

The stenciled silhouette of your body rests on
Canvas. I have yet to write on you, to trace the lines of your skin, the lines, the outlines, the contours.
I will trace you again,
I will touch the smoothness that is you,
Every still moment,
When there is a quiet solitude,
A solitude of becoming
Of growth,
Of love realized.
I will trace you and create you,
And you will be alive in the stillness,
Your voice reverberated from the depths of my
Body,
An echo alive,
I mark you with the scalpel that are my hands,
You mark me with the scalpels that are your feet,
Your hands, your voice, your awe.
Beauty, that is becoming
Love, that is becoming.
Growth, that is becoming.

7

The sweetness of the wetted leaves, the wind over, swept sun, morning moon. My clarity of vision, the palms encapsulate the outter contours and paint my body with rays of heat. You decorate me with your body of warmth, with your breasts of soil. I lay dead as a withered plant and my limbs become graced with the light of my soil. The light of my love that shines me and enfolds me in two pieces, where I stand before her, as one piece and she the other. The other half that has painted me and shone on me. The glowing halo that emancipates me. That is my love. That shines on me and waters me. I can feel her tears drip from the sky and hit my eyes. I can feel my longing of her absence to me. I can feel her water droplets sulking inside of my veins, the lifeblood that sustains my youth and permits me to continue and expand into countless millennia. The love of my soil. The love of my life. The woman of my night, the woman of my morning, and the woman of my day. Come to me and enlighten my insides with your warm and radiant glow. That is the Sun in the sky and the moon in the night.

6

The minute of intervals slowly moving,
Steadying itself on the quiet solitude of waiting,
How I watch those intervals,
With eyes discreet,
With eyes open,
My retinas glisten to the echo of the clock’s wail as it
Marks time, again and again.
How I steady myself to the clock, as if it were my life,
My life that had permitted me to find myself amongst yours,
My life that I wondered what I had been doing all this time,
Since you were absent.
Since you are present.
There are eight days since your leaving,
They will come in sets,
There will always be eight days when I am without you,
But the death of day and the birth of night,
Always makes time run together,
Since you were absent from me at one time,
Since you are present with me to all time,
Since you were absent,
I have steadied myself

5

The glowing and opaque moon of a shimmering rest of day,
When I took your whited palms under light of sky and proclaimed them as an essence to me.
I write the lines of your veins, and your blood quietly flows,
The emerging river that runs inside of my veins,
I give the ring of sky and put on your hand,
You wear the ring of sky and the promise of clouds rests on your body,
That the love floats ever softly around you as a glowing halo,
And you float above the ground and from your feet, soil springs forth,
You water the ground with your stalks of purity,
You wear the dress of night and the necklace of day,
The soil, the essence, the proclamation,
That you water and nurture the bones inside of my body,
And there you are,
The glowed hue of my night.





Thanks tywo! Thanks everyone for commenting on my blog! I am happy to see people read my writing!

4

The coarseness of waiting cannot plague those who wait,
Who wait for love, love in amorous eyes that wraps around two, that sparks the eyes of those and makes them see reflections that were unalike at one time, but become alike at the very instant.
The cancer of love that hits limbs and makes them move out of place in a dreamlike trance,
Love, that makes the sky send clear clouds to the tips of noses, and the serenity smell of purified air,
Love, the wind that floats in the atmosphere invisible, a figment that we cannot see,
Love, the moon at 3 am, and the twinkle of 3 am stars,
Love, the tree in the yard and the scratching of insects,
Love, the bedroom ceiling, the quiet walls,
Love, the look of my eyes into yours, the second by second blinking of retinas and the magnification of your eyes into mine,
Love, the sound of your whisper blowing breath into my ear,
Love, the bodies of us facing the bedroom ceiling, just talking, just staring at the ceiling above.
Love, when you sleep next to me and cuddle me,
Love, when you just breathe on me,
Love, when you sleep with me,
When you dream with me...

3

I floated from the entrapment of the ceiling,
I was surrounded by a box,
Where great walls and windows prohibited me from seeing,
The windows had no view, only the blankness of grey.
The entrapment held me down,
And like some bird,
I wished I could have flown and broken the rust barriers of the ceiling, and been in flight.
The floor was not open,
I could have fallen through a hole in the floor,
The hole would have given me air to breathe,
If only I could have fallen through that non-existent hole,
I would have been spewed out of the hole,
I would have been spewed out of your mouth,
Covered with the ripeness of your tongue,
You would have spat me and there I would be,
Fell through a hole just to get there,
The prison bars of ceiling and wall would not surround me,
And it would just be you and I there,
Alone, together at last,
The whispers of the clarity of sky,
The song of the purity of birds,
The cooing of Sun,
And we would meet mouth to mouth,
Our kisses would resuscitate one another,
And I would be free of entrapment,
And alive in the splendor,
That is your kiss...

2

I worked long hours,
The height of boredom, I was there, alone, sitting alone,
My co worker left sometimes and it would just be me there,
Where had I gone? Where had you gone?
I felt the dampness of that warehouse hell,
I felt isolated, and I would walk to the bathroom, drink from the fountain, dry my eyes, my eyes still remained damp.
If I could have left from that ruin.
The work entailed no work for me,
I had nowhere to go, and the cough of my mouth,
I sustained for the day,
I slept in the bed,
Holding onto stuffed bear,
The stuffed sheep resting above my pillow,
I coughed in sleep,
But I fell…
Asleep, and my eyes hit the pillow.
And I saw your eyes in mine,
And I dreamed you from my head.
I saw you in my head,
And I remembered that I wasn’t alone,
And that I never would be.
These days, these long hours, these weeks, these months,
I can see you in my dreams, and I can visit you there,
I can come to your dormitory after work, in my dreams and I can be greeted by your arms and the way you say “goofy” to me, I can clasp you there, in a dream, and I can not let go.
I will go to the work, the hell.
But I will remain content.
For another day has passed.
And another sleep shall come,
Where I can open my eyes inside of my sleep,
And see you with open eyes,
Looking into my pupils.
As if you are staring at me from another world.
But we are one in the same.

1

I watched you leave from an airport terminal,
My breath gasped for air,
Your luggage and checkout,
I sat hunched over in a chair,
And my eyes looked out,
To gaze at you; my pupils traced the outline of your body,
And I felt the longing of you pulled to me,
I cried a lake, I cried depths, I cried an ocean.
My throat coughed vividly,
My veins tensed,
To watch you from a seat,
To watch you closely,
My memory of you never escapes me,
I will always hold the outline of your body onto mine,
I will always feel the flame of warmth inside of me,
I will wait endless minutes for your eyes to trace me again,
I will wait endless minutes for my eyes to trace you again,
I will come walking with you,
You have left from an airport terminal,
But you have scarcely left,
You have gone, but you will come,
My fears will pass me,
My throat will sustain,
You will come to trace me again,
And you will be pulled to me,
And me to you.

the mind is relevant to function on the sole importance of thinking, yet my mind remains at a construct to understand. i am relevant to think of myself and of my body as seemingly being attached to something that encompasses a greater fraction of a single bodied entity. i feel as if the mind could breathe on its own accord. seemingly, i feel detached from mind at times, and only attached to body. my mind fuses itself to body, and then my find pulls away from body. at times when i am thinking, or, when my mind is not thinking. significantly implying that i, yes i, am seperate from mind, and that mind may seemingly be something entirely different. when the seperate i is thinking, it has problems to conceive the fact that the i is alive and that it has limbs that enable it to move and signals that are sent to and from the brain to render it to move. this i, feels impossibility at such feats and cannot acquire the powerful knowledge that lay outside of its faculties to understand and reason as so. the i, away from mind lies at the bottom of a well, while the mind lie outside in the breeze of winds that flap overhead and touch faces on streets, the same faces that have their own i, and their own mind. are all of the i's and minds seperate from one another? i cannot fathom this possibility...


this thought entailing itself, i want to begin work on a short story, the character is irrelevant, but would find himself caught in a woman's orgasm. the orgasm, like a flowing stream would flow to its destination point. i suppose the entirety of the story would be the character's mental development while inside the vagina of a woman. how would he function differently and would he understand a woman differently then before? if he were outside of the vagina, he would see the woman from another perspective, one that he conceives is made up of bodily want and bodily attraction. one that is prominent with the sex drive. but if he were in a whirpool of a woman's orgasm, completely inside of her, how would he then picture the woman? his mind would delve deeper into himself, and i suppose, he would seperate from his i, and he would focus on his mind. how did he find himself inside an orgasm? how did he find himself inside a woman? this is just a thought of something that has plagued me for a long time. how would he react when he is spewed out of a woman's orgasm or how would he react if he remained inside of the woman permenantly?
the man's orgasm a quick thing, a response of sexual enjoyment, it happens and it is vomited out. it feels good yes, but it is quick. but a woman's orgasm takes long strides to work at, it cooks, it churns, a process like fermentation. it is a process of slowly moving work and churning particles just right til they find themselves at the exact spot, the exact tip where the brink of chaos and unity ensues. the starting point of the woman's orgasm is peace, whereas the ending point of the orgasm is chaos. peace merges with chaos, order merges with anarchy, and the cosmos swirl with the ideas of a cosmic disaster or a big bang theory. yes, the woman's orgasm is the big bang theory and all matter was spewed from it. the man's orgasm is the sewer where temporary waste is stored and where short bursts of wonderment are collected. but the vastness of space lies in the orgasm of a woman.
the i cannot find unity, only the mind can. a mind with an orgasm is the most beautiful and revitalizing process of nature, for it sparks order and creation....

my mind went into a tunnel. the visions were blurred from my eyes, it appeared i was on the brink of an out of body experience. the footsteps were muffled in my ears, and it felt as if i was detached from my mind, or else on an acid trip or something similar to that. what ensued was the penalty of being forced to climb up six or seven flights of stairs to enter the laundry room, all for the favour of washing my clothes. every step, every flight proved more difficult, and my breath gasped for air heavily. i remember feeling the blurred visions and the intense pressure on my chest as if someone were stepping on me and prohibiting me from breathing. i should probably exercise when i have time, to make sure this never happens to me again. or at least, i will know not to climb six or seven flights of stairs next time, i will save the burden and take the elevator. but the feeling was interesting, feeling as if your mind were detached from body and the perception of vision being abstract and blurred, like the pupils have been tightened, and the environment fades from your eyes. i thought i would black out, or else vomit on the floor. but no, i rested some moments on the floor and now am back in my room to write this. now, i feel normal or what i consider to be feeling as normal.
the shit taste has disappeared from my mouth, coughing up something last night while sitting here, came out a piece of food or some tiny fabric of digestion that had laid dormant in my throat for some weeks. this is the proof that my mouth had tasted of shit, after coughing it up, the smell that had plagued my mouth for weeks was sensed, i quickly threw this article of shit away and scrubbed and cleaned my hands.
finishing an eight page paper for my english class was solved today; the sexual isolation of margaret atwood and her handmaid's tale, the erasing of sexual desire for favor of the production and biological necessity of sex for the sole benefit of the state. my mind is already debased enough, thanks to the stair labyrinth i have just climbed.
i will read murakami again today, and i will also read juan rulfo.
a quote from rulfo and a quote from murakami to ease this post...

I then reached the sexual peak-although, rather than a peak, it felt more as if I were being thrown down from a high cliff. I screamed, and I felt as if every piece of glass in the room had shattered. I not only felt it: I actually saw and heard the windows and drinking glasses shattering into powdered fragments and felt them raining down on me. I then felt horribly sick to my stomach. My consciousness began to slip away, and my body turned cold. I know this will sound strange, but I felt as if I had turned into a bowl of cold porridge-all sticky and lumpy, and the lumps were throbbing: it had happened to me before. Nor did it take very long for me to recall what it was. I knew it as that dull, fatal, never-ending pain that I had experienced before my failed suicide attempt. And, like a crowbar, the pain was prying open the lid of my consciousness-prying it open with an irresistible force and dragging out the jellied contents of my memory without reference to my will. Strange as it may sound, this was like a dead person watching her own autopsy. Do you see what I mean? I felt as if I were watching from some vantage point as my body was being cut open and one slimy organ after another was being pulled out of me.

-Murakami

There is more. The vision of God. The soft light of his infinite Heaven. The rejoicing of the cherubim and song of the seraphim. The joy in the eyes of God, which is the last, fleeting vision of those condemned to eternal suffering. Eternal suffering joined to earthly pain. The marrow of our bones becomes like live coals and the blood in our veins threads of fire, inflicting unbelievable agony that never abates for it is fanned constantly by the wrath of God.

-Juan Rulfo

walking into the cafeteria, and the hordes of people crowded around the buffet table. today a crab and seafood dinner was being served. blue tickets were handed out in admittance for the crab. a frenzied line was waiting for the red crab meat that lay before them. the shit taste still has permeated my taste buds and left me with staleness with everything that i eat from there. again, proceeding from cafeteria to elevator to room, now i sit and write this. and i really don't know what i should say now. maybe the mystical leaning of Murakami can approach me again as i continue to delve deeper into his Wind Up Bird Chronicle. music is something that makes me happy, writing is something that makes me happy, reading is something that makes me happy. i find the greatest beauty in latin american and japanese literature. Spring Snow, Pedro Paramo. i wish i could write with the intense zeal that these books are written in and i try to perfect but, but i don't think and i don't think it will ever quite happen.

i am currently hearing mandala by thievery corporation and about to go into murakami's head once again. the sitar is played into my ears and the bass is dub like matched with the tribal percussion of the drums...

my taste buds have been incinerated with a stale taste whenever i try to eat something. the occurrence is unusual and it seems that a river of shit has flowed inside of my opened mouth, it must be the cafeteria food that i eat every day; breakfast, lunch, dinner.
staleness is a bitter word, more bitter is the process of mundane thinking or thinking with no self-awareness or with no moral thought in general.
for instance, the acknowledging of people to think that any country other than their own is worse off than theirs. for example, that there is nothing wrong with the united states, the chinese government is bad, because a country is underdeveloped means that a developed country is far superior to the underdeveloped. nothing is superior, we are never countries that proclaim to be an uber mensch, we are far from it. in my eyes, we are underdeveloped, because it seems that time and time again, we are bred with indifference to everything that seems so much more alien than what we are used to seeing. we are a nation of immigrants, so why is there this indifference to every other country other than our own? there is nothing that is american, because america is a new nation, a nation borne from the blood of others. i understand why so many people leave, because of the indifference and total disrespect in general of a culture that is different.

as i write, the light in my room is dim, and the lights of my roommate's quarters are turned completely off. completely is an adverb describing the mode of how off my roommate's lights are. the stuffed teddy bear rests on my bed staring at the wall and the bareness of the ceiling. the same stuffed teddy bear that i go to sleep with every night and that i hold, because it shelters me while i am here and tells me to forget that i am a human that is indifferent to others. i am human yes, and i am scared of this realization. scared that i too, like every other human have lied, and done things so out of my nature. i am unaware of being indifferent and at the same time, aware of being indifferent. i read octavio paz again and underlined the stanzas that rang in my ears,
some of them erotic. some of them i want to make love with and to stand above my chair naked and read them to the walls. some of them i love so much that i try to imitate them, but i cannot fathom the genius that it took to write them. of one of the underlined stanzas, one of them reads;

your skirt of corn ripples and sings,
your skirt of crystal, your skirt of water,
your lips, your hair, your glances rain
all through the night, and all day long
you open my chest with your fingers of water,
you close my eyes with your mouth of water,
you rain on my bones, a tree of liquid
sending roots of water into my chest.

personification of nature into a woman, body of a woman, pablo neruda, i could sing that song to my lover every night, just before sleep. beauty of nature, cornucopia of breath, of life, of death,
my sweet elixir. i will sleep this night, i will dream, with the stuffed teddy bear in my arms, i, embracing it, and the laughter of silence will ring in my lobes, and i will breathe and rest heavily. i will be asleep and unconscious, my mind will wander planes, plains, and fields. i will be on and off from seperate realities. i will awake and i will brush my teeth, and maybe have a morning shit.i will eat the breakfast, lunch, and dinner again and be brought back to that taste of staleness that plagues me every day. i have two other blogs, this is my first, and this is the one that i want to update more. i will fill it with prose, poems, and thought. this is my journal. this journal is to who i am singing, i write freely. oh journal, oh blog, permit me to write freely.
write to me so that i keep running from indifference...

life

i've recently moved from my hometown to a university, only a 40 minute drive from the place where i grew up. i am 1 and 1 half hours from chicago and the dormitory i live in stands erect like a protruding missile of a penis into the sky, upon entering my city you can see this landmark sticking out of the dead ground, it serves as a marking point for the biggest dormitory complex in the state. i navigate elevators every day to my classes, the elevators being full of people with countless chatter. a multitude of cunts and all of them with nothing interesting to speak, a gathering of boys and all of them with nothing interesting to say, they wear their hats and backwards and concern themselves with alcohol and fucking anything in their eye vision with two legs and no brain. i remain quiet and impatient in the elevators only to come back to my room where i fancy myself with reading octavio paz or listening to sigur ros at the emerging of a night moon creeping into my window. i sleep with the window open sometimes and my ears are given the noise of outside to pollute inside of my dreams. sometimes the scream of drunks on the street and the sound of cars riding the veins of the road. as of lately, i have been hearing strange carnival or circus music emitting from the outside of my window or the sound of church bells. unknowingly, i invite them into my dreams and they plague my mind. my roommate, i have one, always arrives home late and utters prayers in his sleep and sometimes quiet laughter if a succubus were in his room and tickling the tiny nails of his feet. i, last night like a drunkard, half asleep hit my head on the wall and proceeded to say "ouch," in which, i felt the landscape of my head for the appearance of a bump, which, apparently, did not grow onto me.
i shower during the night time and then i lie down, there i sleep, there i get up, there i eat breakfast, there i go to my classes, there i eat lunch, and there i talk with my girlfriend and read.


weekends i am with my girlfriend, staying with her, being free, talking with her, and laughing with her, this is when i am at ease, when i am at the university i still feel alienated. when i am with her i am at the sense of my being, at the sense of what i am.
so far we get this; university=my student life, hardly working, receiving good scores, writing, and listening
weekends away from university=my love life, my splendor, my joy, my passion, my cry, my hope, my blood.

yeah, i am growing into what i want to be, and what i want to be is more than i could ever hope to want to be....

FIN

I

the emerging of light,and the breadbasket of a bountyplaced before my hands,the hands, the palms, the fingernails,the pristine nails, the clarity of them,the touch of the nails against smooth bodies of skin,the skin, the soft wrapping of the nails,the quiet wrapping of the palms against the seamsof my body, against the outline, the stitches that trace the outline and contours of the inside,running of the fingers down the core of legs,slow touchings on the embracing body being borne by the embraced,the hairs stand by their ends and dwindle like threads,the threads of my loins that move as minutes pass into hours, into weeks, into months, into years,the face becomes hard and boiled over,the aging face wears itself,face that is young, that is soon to be old;it will look forever the way it looks as it sees the face of you,of eternal time shown in a face, the intervals of the face, the bone of the face warily accepting the mortality of being a face,the opposite face,the face of yours,hugs my felt tip hairs,nestles my deepest hairs,i stand on ends,your yellowed face melts my being,i am a phosphorous flame,enabled to burn,the end, the root of the sun,the taste of wheat amongst the open fields,encompassing the length of miles,trail, stream, life giver, sustainer, and supporter of words,cultivator of youth, divinity of youth,your face sparks reflections,your face enables history, veins to flow and to run,lips that chisel the hardness of age and the current of wind blown from your breath as it sucks into my mouth, the wind, the air that i breathe,my soul is blown back into me,i can feel myself breathe from the inside,the body is lifted, the soul is made indent,the etchings could never wither, you are not mechanical time,time as an abstraction, that beats measurably, a constructed artifice of human heart,you are the continual time,the time that is not aware of itself,time that simply is,epochs are constructed out of your wind,the same wind that every face knows,the crispness of your wind,blow into mouths and indented souls,cornucopia of wheat,sustain life to my presence,

el surgimiento de la luz, y el granero de una recompensa colocado delante de mis manos, las manos, las palmas, las uñas, las uñas prístina, la claridad de ellos, el toque de las uñas contra los órganos lisa de la piel, la piel, la envoltura suave de las uñas, el envoltorio tranquila de las palmas contra las costuras de mi cuerpo, contra el esquema, los puntos que trazan el perfil y el contorno del interior, funcionamiento de los dedos por el centro de las piernas, retoques lentos en abrazar el cuerpo está a cargo de la abrazó, el vello se levante por sus extremos y se reducen como hilos, los hilos de mis entrañas que se mueven como minutos pasan a la hora, en semanas, en meses, en años, la cara se pone duro y se desbordó, Ante el envejecimiento en sí lleva, cara que es joven, que pronto va a ser viejo; que se verá para siempre la forma en que parece que se ve el rostro de ustedes, del tiempo eterno mostrada en la cara, los intervalos de la cara, el hueso de la cara con cautela la aceptación de la mortalidad de ser un rostro, la cara opuesta, la cara de los suyos, abrazos mi sentir pelos de punta, anida mi más profundo pelos, i stand en los extremos, su cara amarilla se derrite mi ser, Soy una llama de fósforo, activado para poder quemar, Al final, la raíz del sol, el sabor de trigo entre los campos abiertos, que abarca la longitud de kilómetros, camino, arroyo, dador de vida, el sustentador, y partidario de las palabras, cultivador de la juventud, la divinidad de la juventud, su cara chispas reflexiones, su cara permite la historia, las venas fluya y para ejecutarla labios que el cincel de la dureza de la edad y la corriente de viento que sale por la respiración mientras se chupa en la boca, el viento, el aire que respiro, mi alma se sopla de nuevo en mí, Siento que me respira desde el interior, el cuerpo se levanta, el alma se hace guión, los grabados nunca se marchitan, no son mecánicas tiempo, tiempo como una abstracción, que late mensurable, un artificio construido de corazón humano, usted es el tiempo continuo, el momento en que no tiene conocimiento de sí mismo, momento en que simplemente es, épocas se construyen fuera de su viento, el mismo viento que conoce todas las caras, la frescura de tu viento, golpe en la boca y el alma con sangría, cuerno de la abundancia de trigo, sostener la vida a mi presencia,