If I just looked on the surface of things
I would stay in the paradise of forms,
tasting the ill-gotten fruits of speculation
and the bastard fame,
but some cosmic speck irradiated from who
knows what dark star in the beginning
of times afforded me the nurturing juices
of fetal plasma as a dense broth
where boiled the yearning of peeking
into the fissure of the unknown.
Or maybe was the horror of a life stretching
hopeless onto the horizon without doves
cooing, nor fingers intertwined by the threads
of some sunset, what made me
looking down on the gesture and the easy laugh
to disguise the oldest emptiness,
the most wretched mask of what exists,
labeled with illustrious names of being, reason or soul.
Anyway,
nothing washes off the evening migraine,
the pills swallowed as Holy Grails
to save the sanity and dispel the scorching
fire of the digestive tract blocked
in endless labor pains on the toilet.
If I just looked on the surface of things,
maybe I would let loose the winds
that remained stuck
after the last lunch
and before the last attempt of poetry.
