Cemetery of Dreams

There is a route scheduled by
an unknown desire
to walk
on the stretched rope of existence
I must define chaos in space-time,
establish the cosmic entropy and
the light of love sunken in the shadow
of my inexistent before
something is missing before I’m ready
a crusader of nothing
I investigate the eons and
the fleshless that lurks in matter
the tide of life under the soil
the migrating swallow
in the eyes of the sad woman
they don’t all know how to transform their heart
into a sunny day among the icebergs
what do I do here in the room of delusions
in this cemetery of dreams
part of myself already belongs
to infinity
my soul slowly discards the body
it has been some time since
I started to forget and to be forgotten

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

ORESTES

… mother always discovered her most precious movement
and stand this way, exactly at the time of its absence —
I was always afraid that she would vanish from our eyes,
she would better ascend — when she leaned down to tie
her sandal that left out her fantastic, painted, cyclamen-
nails or when she fixed her hair in front of the big mirror
with such a cute movement of her hand, youngish and
weightless, as if she erased three or four stars off the
forehead of the cosmos, as if she wanted two daisies
to kiss each other in front of the fountain, as if she looked at
two dogs maternally while they were coupling in the middle
of the dusty road during the summer, hot noon. Mother
was so simple, strong, imposing, unexplored and
convincing.

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Take off your iron shirt and
all the arms of battle, put on
what suits you the victor:
the rosy chiton with the satin
flowers and diamonds; come
dismount your horse, so it
too can rest and grace the Polis
with your light, oh Sun King,
spread your light equally
so we won’t be blinded by it.
Soon as the hymn from the
Venetians ended a new hymn
started coming from a faraway
corner, a black hymn that
swelled like a wave, the tempest’s
offspring and it wasn’t hymn but
a wailing and a curse, which
the Frontiersmen sang. When
the Prophet heard it he shivered.

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Cleaner
He stoops and wipes the surface of
the small washroom cabinet: he opens
the small door places two rolls of toilet
paper in it, two bars of soap on the side
of the sink, wipes the bowl, lucky here
the bowls aren’t like the filthy ones
in the army where he spent two years
before emigrating to Canada; he
empties the small basket with its few
leftovers, luckily enough the toilet
paper is discarded in the bowl…he
now has one last chore: to mop
the floor of the 28th floor before he’ll
go down one and so on until he
reaches the main floor late in the
afternoon in this much-needed job
he got into this foreign land especially
for one who isn’t fluent in the new
language, as in his case, and who
although a university graduate this
is the only job he could land in
his early days in Canada where
having a degree from another
Faraway University makes not a single
difference in the great scheme of things

https://draft2digital.com/book/3745812

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763637

Supper Prayer*
Oh God, covered in goodness
you deigned to dress him
with dignity that he’ll
again today share
a table with You

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763408

LAMENT FOR THE YOUTH STEFANOS MESSALAS
Hades was ploughing, ploughing the earth that fears Him,
His rows but gravesites, His seed only poison.
Hades was ploughing with His black ox
which blew hard at each stroke of the merciless goad.
Where the ploughshare passed, it felled the trees,
uprooted homes and wrecked the world,
and you, young lad, what sought you on His path?
In your mother’s embraces, in your father’s too,
you were raised with kisses, and concern looked after you.
Oh, youth, why do you not remain with us?
You thought to sleep inside the earth was sweet,
you did not know, oh child, a grave needs company,
that in it you are destitute, an orphan.
You will not find your father’s bones arrayed
where you’ll descend, but you’ll lie down in loneliness.
Oh, child, why do you want to leave?
But that young stripling heard us while a thousand
worlds and golden dreams around him seemed to shine.
He smiled back sweetly as if to say “the grave, my father
isn’t loneliness but rather life and love.”
Hades was ploughing, ploughing, and didn’t rest,
but day and night His ploughshare worked,
it took the sprouts and hid them in the soil
and soundlessly, alone, He passed and furrowed.
Oh, father and mother, he is gone, the grave is covered,
bid farewell to your child on his last voyage
with your last kiss and bitter tears.
He’ll sail as if he were a bird, and I
wish I were with him, to see my daughter in Hade’s abode.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562959

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763513

Jester
As though going through the pages of a porno-magazine
we arrived at the house of the jester. With his back against
the wall he contemplated on how short life was and how
everyone was justified right after their death.
In a moment of paroxysm he grew wings and said,
‘I know how to make you laugh’, something we never
doubted. After all the king never doubted his creativity,
for this he hired him, however we always doubted
the king and the stains on our pants were witnesses
of infidelity, until finally He stood up, the Übermensch
and smiling at the jester He hugged him saying:
‘my brother, you are my chosen one.’

https://draft2digital.com/book/3746914

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BGFRGLVH

excerpt

That was a strange kind of animal. I didn’t think it was a pig, too
slender and bony, and too big and fleshy to be any kind of bird I knew.
My turn came, and I sank the gourd and extracted it with the
stock, which I drank and found to be dull but palatable. As the
liquid diminished, Urquía took the charred carcass and tore it
apart, giving a piece to each man. I couldn’t see clearly, for she had
her back tome, but when she gave Conopoima, who sat beside me,
his piece, my stomach lurched. It was a little hand with fingers
curled up by the heat.
Stories of cannibalism came to my mind. Was it a child we were
eating? Conopoima took the hand and with his teeth peeled the
fingers of their flesh, nails and all, leaving the tiny bones bare.
I didn’t have time to do anything but gape before she favoured
me with the head. It was the head of a monkey with a horrible grin
on its face.
I am sure it was deference to give me the head, but, by all the
saints in heaven, how could I eat it? And how could I not eat it? I
looked around, swallowing the contents of my stomach a couple of
times as they rose, insisting on being expelled. I saw the men
relishing here a hand, there a leg, foot and all, picking out of their
mouths the tiny bones of the toes or a nail, or just spitting them out.
They stared at my inaction, their conversation slowly dying.
I looked at the gourd and turned it over to avoid the monkey’s
almost human face. Then I cracked a smile and held the head with
one finger while I sipped the small amount of liquid left. A cold
sweat broke out on me as I fought the need to retch. I forced myself
to swallow and appear content. Guacaipuro’s eyes gleamed. They
were testing me again.
I deliberately tore a piece of skin from the scalp so that everyone
had time to see, and put it in my mouth and chewed. Swallowing
proved more difficult, but Baruta’s disappointed expression gave
me the push I needed, and I forced it down. Once, twice, three times.
I managed to pick enough meat out of the head to expose a patch

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562848

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073522