I used to sit on the 21st floor. Now I am retired

Friday, February 03, 2006

Sometimes I can do this...

Love Song of Esteban

Or how on particular days, Pedro and Eliot speak the same fucking language

Sisyphus discovered his own reasons,

and I have my own

but striking against the glass wall in rainy season

might just break my bones

Might just break my bones,

the incessant acts of sporadic nature

but never will the top of the mountain meet the stone

nor will the wall part under pressure

Will the wall part under pressure

And release the gale-force like on the Egyptians

(Was there not a single innocent amongst the thousands that drowned?

Was there not a single beloved waiting to be crowned?

Was there not a single husband, waiting to be a father?

... was there a reason for all of them to die, why did not they live... rather!!)

or will the wicked Moses fix the odds for his pleasure

leaving me clutching at molded ph…

the shaggy dog looks into my eye, licks his

tongue and says goodbye

Will I ask for one more favour,

Will I ask for one more question?

Will I ask for redemption and a vote of thanks?

Will I understand when I don’t hear a reply?

Will I look for one last (first) sign?

Will I taste the last kiss again?

Will I forget what it tasted like and yearn for one more?

Will I ask for one more?

The shaggy dog licks his ear, wags

his tail and calls me dear

As I told you, the rains are here,

Even though it hasn’t rained today,

Maybe my ears are that much more tuned to hear

to similar sounds, on the July day

it rained the day,

don’t you remember,

as it did in Verona on Juliet’s breast,

as it did when I asked for one last smile,

as it did when I picked up the leaf and on it, with the black felt tip,

put one last wish

The shaggy dogs smells me over, lifts his leg

and waters the flowers

Did I ask for too much?

Or did I ask hundreds of times, for the same thing? And while asking….

If you couldn’t hear the screams, the pleas, the warnings, the sighs, the pain, the colors, the color of the summer in Central Park and of autumn in Versailles, the bruise,

the question,

the quarrel,

the poem,

the prose,

the letter written within my drawer,

(it might still be there, if you care to look)

the reflection in our mirror,



The shaggy dog doesn’t find any trace, of his mate

retreats from my face.


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