While the cracks [all them cracks] meet each other, while so much of that happens, a child plays catch with the spite he found under his bed one autumn morning...

des i dera tum

Cloudy day on sight, hurry, hurry! The thirst won't go fast, the walk seems long. A night that could catch you sitting at the pier while those dreams drift away with the waves. Blame no one, you dropped them at the sight of the sun.
The ocean won't bathe your feet. No...
Oh, Carmen! The thoughts of you walking by the men who desire you have driven my nerves as high as the white birds which look for a warm winter home. That voice that lullabied so many evenings appears as narrator in the images that accompany my sleep. Oh, Carmen... My padded room means nothing, it's no match for your arms.
A house on a hill, the ivy swinging, as the tyre from the tree and my heart from the sky. The smell of the seas swarm the living room and the bedrooms until you come out of the kitchen with a pie for two. I smile over and over till the earthquake of reality tears it all apart.
I have buried it, and I dare not use its name for the plain utterance of that word provokes the tears rolling down my face. I faced not the casket, I kissed not its face anymore, I just saw the grass dancing a two-step in my mind. So, there is now only a dirt road, for I pretend there is not a cobbled path surrounded by flower beds to my right. I sink.
I dreamt of you. You were nobody.
I swear I couldn't have seen him... I swear, I swear... When the wheels are in motion there is not much a tiny spectre like I can do, is there? I know my attempt to comfort you is vague, futile and somewhat empty, yet there ain't nothing else I can say. I only wished to go foward, to the path I believe I have chosen, to the smile I have promised my kind.
You dead! I ain't in no comfort til the wave take me far, to you.
So, you are in France. One a many night she made oaths about you. She said she wouldn't leave, she swore she could stand it all, she said she would love me...
I cannot stop the voices that tell me to pick up the phone and ring him. "The wolf`s on the loose," the newspaper read, and as soon as I could I ran to the door to see if it had spent the night by it. No voiceprints in the air or bites on the walls. Thus I am holding onto this damned telephone hoping for a call. I do not know why I bother...
I wish for two steps. To run behind dr3ams, to try to catch my non-born grandchild, to escape from my chair. I survive by the cracks, tempered and flooded. The trips come to me in the shape of winged horses. I ask for just two steps.
My desiderata


It is the soul in tiny bits what I might try to summon.

There is me, there is my skin, there is the arms that hug a few only, there is the eyes on the sky.

It is the soul in tiny bits that which I might try to summon once in a while at the hearing of trumpets. I fear the existence of nothing underneath says the tune I linger upon. Yet I dare once and again. The epic is a mirage I dream upon, within and over. I exercise the nerves and the fingers till a cascade falls upright, bathing the skyes, soothing my eyes [No one, no one] It might be I who anybody else tries to summon. The moment is mine. Thoughts about to collapse. I steal my own tricks. I imagine.