Leave behind the roots,
End of day.
Leave behind the roots,
End of day.
Heavy yellow stones and one dark-faced monkey,
I’m sitting down, pretending to be funky.
She looks at me, and scans me up and down,
You’re not my type, cos’ you’re from outta town!
I try, explain, that we are all the same,
We laugh, we cry, no matter whence we came.
She says, no, no, you cannot understand,
I’m sorry, yeah, but cannot be your friend.
And so it goes, united by the wall,
We face the light, that down on us does fall,
I contemplate, and cannot comprehend,
How could it speak, so I can understand.
I can never remember a time,
when people were still collecting stamps,
tabulating the symbols,
of letters not yet sent,
never to be sent,
many of them,
In my time,
in my book,
I’m collecting just names,
and their faces,
the post office has moved,
and the faces,
are still waiting for letters…
Strolling down my collection,
a lone finger sends waves to the crowd,
moving back, moving forth, till it stops,
pointing one name at random,
It’s the first on the list.
A thumbs up,
Then a quick middle finger,
Laugh out loud on the side,
Zipper mouth, dollar eyes,
Then an eye roll.
I can never remember the time,
when I sent away my last letter.
The post office has moved,
has become our exchange.
With no words,
by the beautiful,
grammar … of emotion.
Supposedly it has begun,
The procedure of giving names to colors.
The judges are blindfolded,
And one touches the empty air.
Warmth of a tickle,
Descending the knees,
Which I can feel right above my ears,
In between the temples,
The nostrils are too big for my nose.
Smell of sweat,
Behind a re-purposed(?)
Supposedly I chose to drink
A fresh cup of orange juice because I wanted to warm up.
The air, not so fresh,
Pressurized behind open doors,
Keeps me warm.
a hundred voices coalesce.
What if light was so heavy,
that we could see
when we dragged it around.
What if heaven was so dark,
that we could reach it
What if dreams were made of words,
that we could read
when we woke up.
After we picked up light
from where we left it,
tied to the feet of our bed.
(poem inspired by a dream, credits to the subconscious :D)
And blue water …
That I can see in the small waves,
The biggest of them all,
A mountain far ahead.
Breathing … (hiccup)
With hiccups. (hiccup)
From my balcony,
I can see one building,
Which ate a slice of the sea. (hiccup)
It’s slowly …
Getting dark …
Breathe in, breathe out …
Dream in, dream out …
A silent noise:
The mountain turned into a wave,
To my right,
The sea falls down like a valley,
To my left.
It took away with it the sand,
And my breath.
With what air is left in my lungs,
I look out:
It’s bluetifuuul !
The sea is rumbling,
I cannot hear it.
The mountain is still far away,
To my right,
The sea is falling down like a valley,
To my left,
And I am safe,
On my balcony,
I write because it lets me predict the future. Yet for the first time, I had no clue where this story will bring me. Maybe it’s because, when I started, I was mature enough to understand that:
I’m Smarter than you,
I’m Faster than you,
I’m Better in every single way,
And for all I have done
Let’s be honest,
I deserve more than you!
I was somewhere in this cheerful mood, when I went to my first salsa class. Now I have to confess something: I have never, ever danced before. Not even under the shower. After I took the first beginner class 3 times, the second beginner class 3 times, the third beginner class 3 times, moved to intermediate, and then came all the way back to beginners, I realized … there must be something wrong with the teaching method. So I decided to come up with my own. Salsa … for people who think too much.
Lesson 1 – the upside down umbrella
You dance in a circle, switching partners. By the end of the class, you’ve done the full tour twice and you get a pretty complete and consistent image of yourself:
You’re frowning, you’re angry, you’re thinking too much,
you’re counting, not counting, don’t do it as such,
so wait for the next one, next time, boy oh boy,
Now you’re not good enough.
Let’s skip all the blaming and get things straight – Yes, I’m the guy, Yes, I’m supposed to lead, it’s all on me. Yes, I really, really wanna do things right. Yet here I am, stopping in the middle of a move because I forget where the freaking legs are supposed to be, stuttering back and forth a bunch of times until I think I got the rhythm right (and I look into her eyes – nope, I didn’t). Here I am – hating myself for every clumsy little move, and I put in my google calendar that the next time when I go, I won’t just talk about my mistakes, I’ll make people compliments, but I can’t. I guess that was my first salsa lesson – you cannot make compliments when you’re frustrated.
One evening, at a salsa party I saw a really strange thing. In the middle of the stage, a chair, and a little kid sitting on it. Two larger, heavier kids, were pushing him from the sides, trying to see if they can fit him in smaller space. I could read on his lips, he kept saying, if only I could disappear, if only I could disappear and these two assholes would bump into each other, if only, I could disappear… I ran off to help, but the children vanished.
I looked around, and on my right, there was a girl, who I asked to dance, and for 2 minutes, I forgot all about my salsa mistakes. All I could think of was her hair. Whenever she turned around, her hair raised, weightless, like an upside down umbrella. I didn’t say anything. Back then, I feared that making compliments always has consequences. Instead, she looked at me and said, in the sweetest possible way: you think a lot, don’t you ? It might have been a compliment.
Lesson 2 – the alien
I land. I watch the dancers float on the stage and I am amazed. I make contact with the humans: unbelievable, we have the same five fingers. But what do I say? On my planet, the whole world lives inside my head, but here, your world is too big, and I cannot carry all its emotions. I am … a mirror. An emotional amplifier. You want me to be myself ? If I share the dramas that live inside me, they would crush you. So I break the loop. Instead of reflecting emotions, I will transform them. I become a drunken clown, that turns fears into jokes. A colorblind poet, that paints the world with words.
That night, I left early, exhausted from too much thinking. When I reached the entrance, I saw a man, sitting down, his legs crossed. He was flipping one coin over, and over again, never happy with the outcome. After he flipped the coin a thousand times, I found my courage, and went back to the dancing floor.
Lesson 3 – What did you wanna become as a grown up?
When I was a kid, I really wanted become an extrovert. I remember going to parties, where I wouldn’t talk much, but I would always say good bye – to people I knew, to people I didn’t know. It was the easiest thing to do – I didn’t need to have a half-an-hour conversation after that goodbye (although that seems to happen all the time lately and I love it). Somehow, doing that has become a sort of tradition for me. Because for me, goodbye, is when people get to know me: I am … the child who didn’t disappear. I am the man who flipped the coin a thousand times, the coin that every single time showed, in reflection, my face, to realize that I am … you!
If to be broken,
Is to live in a world,
where only the satisfied are fed,
you’re so hungry,
that you learn to pretend.
If to be broken is to live life,
like it’s a Mario game,
never making it past the first level,
always falling down into that first pit,
because for some odd freaking reason,
in those twenty something years of your life,
I had no idea,
that THERE’S A JUMP BUTTON!
that I can skip over pain,
jump over yesterday,
live like a child,
too small to make sense of any of this,
but still taking the jump,
the bold leap of faith,
that one day
I will learn to fly.
Thinking that maybe, maybe the happiest moment of my life
Is right now,
And right now, I am split, spread out,
between the lines,
With so many walls torn off,
With nothing to fear,
And nothing to defend,
if that is what it means to be broken,
Then broken is what I want to be!
There is one downside to being a superaware cameleon,
I have no energy left for joy,
When every drip of blood that flows under my skin
Goes into asking:
What’s wrong with me this time around?
my hands are dangling awkwardly
as if in an out of the body experience,
I guess I’ve always looked like an astronaut on fast forward
navigating the void space between my mind and others,
without the gravity of confirmation.
the socks I picked in a rush
don’t match my clothes and I wonder,
before the whole pants below the waist thing was fashion,
did people wear them low to hide the socks out of shame ?
You see, the great Descartes said
I think, therefore I am,
But for all the 50 layers
Of hierarchical meta-thinking,
Self-fulfilling, self-deprecating loops,
I’d hardly say I am,
At best, I’m a bit lost.