Purposeless Insistence

He mixes the mud; his hands tremble; he’s afraid. He doesn’t

know what to do. The house is empty. Perhaps he can present

the face of fear or the hands of fear with his hands as prototypes.

However, these hands are covered and mixed in the mud. Only

a gigantic, red eye is focused on him — doesn’t let him see

anything else. He takes the knife. Pushes it into the mud. He

stops. The mud dries, with the knife pushed in its middle,

the mud dries around his fingers, and he can’t move them. Then,

is this his statue? The old uncared-for dog sniffs the clothes

of the dead woman, hunches under the table, and starts crying.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CGX139M6

Tumbling

Papers, rusted pieces of metal, rusted slogans, poems.

A vacant stool on the empty table, in the empty house.

You are familiar with them, you pretend you don’t know,

a bit more and you’d get fooled, you would fool,

you could praise someone; you could be praised (now without

a smile) it was your duty, you were saying, what duty? You

hide the hole with your body, while the around flags

get tattered in large, hollow single-coloured leaves.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763726

Excerpt

But Ken Kirkby was thinking of far more than the painting and the

sheer audacity and will that had brought him here. His mind drifted to the

women he had loved and who had helped shape him and his vision. He

thought about his father and most of all he thought about Francisco, the

old fisherman who had told him tales of the Arctic when he was a young

boy. His imagination had fed on those stories. Through all the events of

his young life, the dream of the Arctic never died – it took him to Canada’s

far north and to adventures most people never imagined.

He thought about his heritage – the Viking blood that flowed through

his veins but perhaps most of all he thought about the people of the Arctic

– the grandmothers, the men, the women and children and the orphans.

Isumataq was for them – for their dignity, their freedom and their

own land.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Chaotic Light

I’m an imaginary list

of minutes, hours, years

and from the lava of an unsettled desire

many of my selves scattered

in the negative of time

my lives inside each other

Russian dolls

shared between the oceans

and the ancient landscape of the sky

that no one knows

that it belongs to the loneliness of the other.

I wish I could find a way

to stop from aging

the chaotic light of the poem

and the passerby

who unfurls his sail inside it.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DPCRLJC6