K.O. calling

Blue caravan

Locked up in a blue
Handful of sticky hot ashes and glue
Washing my nose with a sore tooth
And a glass of drowned love:
The broken leaf blurs the eye again
Will an illusion recover another one?

A long time ago, I scraped my arm on the road
To Avalon or Timbuktu I don’t know
It looked like an ordinary Sunday
In irritation and sorry lands
red caps and gunned ants


Frozen in a bleached sight
Of red caps and gunned ants
Bellowing the guts with a smile
And a drip of blood:
The broken leaf blurs the eye again
The illusion is just a step ahead

Do you sometimes hate me
because I live,
because you live,
in different lives?

Love is the caravan that milks the sand.

(Caracas, marzo del 2003)

 

micro-huertos

sin-colas-micro-huertos-no-pasan-tanta-hambre

 

“The innocent mistake that keeps us caught in our own particular style of ignorance, unkindness, and shut-downness is that we are never encouraged to see clearly what is, with gentleness. Instead, there’s a kind of basic misunderstanding that we should try to be better than we already are, that we should try to improve ourselves, that we should try to get away from painful things, and that if we could just learn how to get away from the painful things, then we would be happy.”

– in ‘The Wisdom of No Escape’, by Pema Chödrön

 

 

A S K O

A S K O