Of poems

I divide

in jacket, pants and belts

so I fall apart

in tie and shirt

and separate myself into skull, into lungs,

in viscera and groin

and I distinguish myself

in every cell

that without love leans

the other cell

thus, casually, I subsist:

then borrow

the force that unites

each other my possible faces

to an unexpected sacrament

of a guitar,

to the friend's laughter

to the usual ringing of the telephone,

in distracted waiting,

once forgive my back

my leg, my sweet tie:

in idle wait

of the sacrament of birth.

I know the peace of the thoughtful dinosaur,

the coherence of the tiger's fangs:

where there were no words,

where there are no words

in the center of the center of the center

of deaf, vital, bloody things,

where are enumerated stomach,

nails, genitals

very long intestines, paws

tears are tears

by blood that comes out of torn flesh

to the great horror of death

where catalogs are written

of screams, of menace, of flesh

of carnal evil only

where there's no love and no lust

but life's brave will

the center of the legs

who ripens foolish things.

we have a lifetime

not to live together.

On the Shelves of God

the possible gestures get dusty

cherub flies stain

our caresses – are perched like owls

the stuffed feelings.

“Basked merchandise” – the bronze angel will shout –

ten boxes of life, of possible.

And we will also have a death to die:

a casual, unnecessary death,

distracted without you.

I don't have my existence

if not for that

continuous ear pain

a friend letter

the strong taste of beer

against the gums

out of secrecy

of uninterrupted fear

I have no other clue

of my continuity.