|
| The sound of waves on the sand,
erases all thoughts of work,
erases your concern,
and leaves you empty,
Abre los ojos.
Soft sea breeze gently pushes our hammock,
the motion is not what comforts you,
my eyes whisper to you,
Te quiero mí amor!
And though the sun is bright,
it is not the sun's warmth you feel,
rather, it is your name,
spilling from my heart,
Iraís... Iraís... Iraís.
| | |
| Journal entry from January 2001
This entry did no write itself. This sentence didn't come into existence all by itself. You aren't accidentally reading it either.
I am writing these words as you read them. Though it may appear that there are other words appearing after theses, and it may appear there are words on many pages after this one. Make no mistake, I am writing the exact words you are reading now.
If you jump to another entry to read words it is because I knew before you jumped and wrote words on those other pages. Go ahead and try it!
See? You just read the words I wrote for you. Fantastic isn't it? Now I know this troubles you, and at the same time amazed at how I was able to write these other words for you on those other pages in advance of you reading them. Are these words not being read by you this very instant? How else is it to be explained? How is it that you can not stop reading these words as I write them?
Could it be that I'm an excellent writer? Is it so absurd to think that I am capable of such a feat? Are you thinking that I might be super human? Or even, dare I say, non-human?
| | |
| Pensamientos de Irais
I
Preparing to sleep,
your head on my chest,
one leg pinning me down,
an arm around my middle,
my nose in your hair,
and in this moment,
I can feel our hearts whispering.
II
Early Tuesday morning,
before the sun and
before you woke,
I trace your outline with my finger.
I wanted your eyes
to smile at me again,
but I didn't want to wake you,
so I kissed you on the forehead,
and hugged you softly,
hoping morning never comes. | | |
| Just write,
flow let it go,
don't look back,
never read what's written,
not until the pen slows,
not until this is done.
A break through,
a sudden burst of logic,
clarity.
Standing amongst a field of oats,
standing open,
standing in the breeze,
standing in view,
standing.
Don't look back,
focus here,
what is seen become unseen,
what is unseen become seen,
what is left?
Only what is important.
What I want I can see.
What remains unseen,
is that which I need.
Where am I now?
What are the concrete details of this?
What is this?
A release.
The expulsion of the unnecessary,
a cleansing,
the participate.
Not poetic dribble,
more here and now,
more real, more clear.
My desires are loud,
food, sex, love,
sex, sex, food,
sex, sex, love,
always sex,
always love,
always.
After food what's next?
After sex what's next?
After love what's next?
After death what's next?
Next?
What about before?
where was I before this?
I did not exist,
only here and now do I exist,
after death I will not exist as I am now,
I will return from which I came,
the universe, my mother,
my beginning, my end,
my energy will return to it,
my dust will burn again.
I will be part of all,
the future, the past, the now,
breathe me, drink me,
piss me out.
| | |
| 
Primary colors.
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|
