Smile to make me believe

Smile to make me believe

When you smile
lift me from breathing
conquer joy so I can submit
to the eternal feminine and the grace
I am tired of man’s world
of war, politics, corruption, smiting enemies
so dear make me dizzy
with thoughts of intimacy, children, the home
arch me with your gold decoration
that I might feel young again
lead me to small feminine laughter
where you cradle the shining sun
and my life becomes the blue body
of freedom, the skies and the ocean
when you smile
realize, please, the influence
of how the spring submits to rain
of how my skin was made to
let your heart in, like laughter
and the foreign verse of beauty
I being a man, am so alien to it
When you smile
cry for me with the inexplicable
for I have no tears left
numbed by cruelty and maybe defeat
smile for me, like unconquerable music.

Wrinkles on our dreams

Wrinkles on our dreams

I woke with marble in my hands
What does it mean?
I am descendent of centuries
Not independent, not autonomous

I am a falling into dreams
Of generations and pupils of elders
It would be very difficult
To think of myself as separate

I inherit euro-centric bias
And I take part unwittingly in patriarchy
I live in an economic simulation
What does this mean?

It means reality is not culture
Social conditions is only a layer
Of existence, my hands disappear
In my dreams, for I know my ancestors

Committed murder, waged false wars
So a few could profit
And the many would remain slaves
Feudalism never died, it only

Masked itself in a homogenous
Globalization of pretend liberties
I wake up with dreams of my own
That I’ve likely been programmed for

My desires are the software
And I am the obedient application
I labour, I do what I am told
How can I innovate in a world

In a world where strangers
Are competitors and scarcity
Is a growing concern of failing economies
I haven’t seen myself in the mirror
Where has my soul gone to visit?

Introduction to burning manuscripts

Introduction to burning manuscripts

The new poem will contradict
The old poems
And that’s the way it ought to be
Language needs a Spring
————————————–

For words have a barren
Way with winter anyhow
As a poet unfond
Of their own speaking voice
Forced to talk to themselves

By virtue of necessity
I to the past poets must cry
The tears of other words
For I no longer have the breath
To erase the margins
To edit the voice
————————————–

Whose possible meanings
Are so many
There’s always doubt

On the tip of the tongue
Maybe everything stated
Is completed erased in our subjectivity
In the time it takes

To be expressed and
The time it takes to be read aloud
When it no longer rings true
The new poem, let it hang there
A ghost, an extract, a fragment

For forever, I don’t read
Old poems, I only live to write.