English

 

 

Second Hand Life

 

 

I’m he who works in a big building

Over looking the ocean that I never saw

I clean the corridors of the sticky body parts of passing

Of the vomit and the spit of loss

I’m the skinny one who carries the heavy load of their second hand life

 

The clicking dentures in the mouths of old people drives me insane

Crippled in the smoke of their ages

I help them one by one to enter their bubbles

then close them in with an evil touch.

But those youth who jump but never elevate

I’ll open fire on them in another world

 

Because my form doesn’t harmonize with me

While I slam doors,

While I pull the light future stained with juice, the blood of steak

And the lazy insects of retirees’ cholesterol

Who might fall dead at the end of the corridor,

I whisper as a creature who no longer waits for anything.

 

 

What I must spend inside, I spend on the step

Until the fragile texture of quick pleasures eject me

Then the air tied to the leg of the bed lures me back.

Secrets no longer exist inside

And the humidity of bodies

Yields an unbearable odor.

 

Busy arranging seats in a lobby

No one will enter

With dirty nails, I scratch the dust off the daytime of language,

The dust that comes from the statues I just destroyed.

 

The despair

The slow movement of the body

The language and what it bleeds

The pus from the nails in the air

My silence, the broken hammer

And the all forgettable accessory of the scene.

 

The interior overflowed in vain

And geography, no longer an excuse

 

The regret that I raised required no care

It grows covered in a light layer of hashish

And the smell of bad liquor

 

Whenever it moves, the furniture revolts from its name

And the ceiling streams down the walls

 

So the open scissors of tremendous metaphysics lies between the swaying smoke and the center of the sky spending its surplus foam on the edge of the void.

 

Regret made of the future scorched earth

And life as a closed museum

Regret is my joy from loss

My torn intimate corner in the wind

 

After 35 years I thought there was no necessity for my ego

But whenever I exit myself, I recur, whipped by the need for myself

as if the past never was,

as if the now never occured.

 

Effected by others, due to the severity of giving up on them

The distance between me and them is a lettuce leaf nibbled by the rabbit of words.

I kill them as I grow heavy on their blood.

I forget them as I’m dominated by fear

 

Without pretend wisdom, I raised the void

and once released, it devoured me.

What I do, I love and I hate; it offers me no significance, tosses me in no direction.

 

Oh God, you’re not my God to beg but I became weary

And your image in the mistakes made me weary.

I’m not mystical, so my disobedience will be construed as devotion.

I’m not a life expert, to let my body debate and integrate into the crowds.

I’m just a mass peeled by the longing for its depth.

A sigh, forever misunderstood.

 

Oh God, because they won’t rescue me

And because I’m incapable in front of their yellow theology

You are my protruding colorful loss,

you are my well covered by an eyelid.

 

Roar of a word coming from an invisible radio

The echoes are trees trimmed by wine.

 

I don’t know how the fortune-teller in the pilot’s uniform rained praises and promises upon me and then robbed me. I gave him everything I had. I was too exhausted to lean on my doubts. He said, “I’ll return your past to you so you go to your future cleansed of all your deaths.” In front the gate of hell, I waited for him and he said, “ten minutes to get my bag, change the water glass for God and move the curtain so the sun doesn’t waken him.” I waited for hours; he didn’t return. The receptionist said, “it’s useless.” Then I had to return to my own hell. I had to walk and walk; I needed to cry or sleep. I didn’t kill myself like the real tragic hero would’ve. I went crowded with that which I cannot name. It wasn’t the end exactly, but everything was lifeless.

 

The interior overflowed in vain

And geography, no longer an excuse.

 

In those mysterious factories

Where the machinery makes noise

And the same commodity of time repeats itself.

 

In those cities carried on the chill of air conditioners

Where the entire world at the check point is a broken storm

All stand as one composing the nomadism of oblivion.

 

Homelessness is not exactly a word, it’s a damaged ceiling of words perpetually falling.

Penniless and lonely, why am I so sad?

It wasn’t my desire to die on the deserted street in some cold city.

 

Desires

Desires

Are the swing of lies,

For children, their toys are hard labor.

 

Because I don’t know the flavor of death well,

Because with my tired fist, I strike the banister and strike walls that were built quickly on the edge of dawn,

my arrival means nothing.

 

I turn the key in the hole of the abyss,

I don’t stomp on the step to remove the snow

I don’t cradle my face to cry,

My sleep is broken branches in a hole that won’t protect me from the projectile of fleeting memory,

I stomp with empty bodies on a black sponge.

Whenever I need a direction,

I straighten up in the depths of the moment.

 

What a generous child I am.

My wisdom, heavens burned by bored believers.

My tables, always on the rocky slope.

And my God, like me, hungry and mysterious.

In a life, no one owns.

 

I emptied the myths from the hope to forget them

Realistic, I lose.

And tremble at the door of reverie.

I believe my miracles,

So my grandfather’s God walks quietly as a thief on the roof of my days.

 

The interior overflowed in vai

And geography, no longer an excuse.