Sunday, February 6, 2011

Empty Days In the Desert

Empty days.
Stuck in this desert
upon which I stumbled
As if it were a rock.
And not a flat terrain.
Rain!
Rain on me the indifference,
the desires, the angry curses...
Still, I will not budge
towards the oasis
which lies ahead.
The still water -- the color of lead --
speaks of all the dead that we have not buried.
Whose ashes roam
and permeate my brain
with the unspoken nostalgia
for return.
NO!
Burn!
Burn further into nonexistence
untill there is nothing, no one, NONE!
Empty days.
Castrated.
Futile.
Like an aging nun.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Solitude Receding....

A stair not made hollow by footsteps thinks of itself as only something boring made of wood.
Franz Kafka (The Blue Octavo Notebooks)

Have I become
"something boring"
made of meat,
invisible to others --
to everything save
for despair?
Do I dare
to imagine this life
less unbearable?
Or another -- not attainable? --
in this existence
where I am sentenced
to flesh
in this city
that looks like amnesia:
deserted wasteland
without the expanse --
the color of ash.
At night,
I meet my temporary death.
With the sun's light and heat
I am confined to solitude
where I hear my own breath.
And the beat
of my own heart.