Once a piece of a mountain just cracked, a big piece mind you, and started rolling downhill. It hit and punched pounded and knocked anything and everything on its way. Schooling, marriage, expectations, you name it. As it rolled, it became rounder and rounder, vomiting little chips of rock along the way. And it became faster and faster and faster, erratic, smacking as it rolled down with such force it seemed it was the world itself that was crushing it all at once, like a hand squeezing life of an egg.

Then a roar, then a giant loud crack and it finally stopped. Larger pieces fell into the sea, the smaller ones just went missing. There, the waves drowned it in salt, sculpted it with kisses and scattered it across the ocean.


an elephant was killed in the zoo


no tension, no hidden meaning

a white towel, white china

wine and truffles and parsley

a beautiful view of a savannah set

olive oil, salt and mint

gowns and ties, foundation and concealer

small talk, clinks and dings and chinks

carpets, watches and businesscards

a light shower in a warm evening

smiles, smiles and smiles

maybe one or two side eyes

a shriek

a trunk

a helicopter




“The Forgetful Ghost” by William T. Vollmann After my father died, I began to wonder whether my turn might come sooner rather than later. What a pity! Later would have been so much more convenient! And what if my time might be even sooner than soon? Before I knew it, I would recognize death by […]

via Read “The Forgetful Ghost,” a supernatural tale by William T. Vollmann — Biblioklept

What is in the mind that sees what the eye does or does not? Yesterday feels like falling of a horse, the broken rib, the soiled clothes, the taste of complete failure. But my mind is not sure anymore and no matter how much I ask for the help of the memory of others, I still fail miserably. Didn’t I see twenty? It was surely in the bag’s side pocket, wasn’t it? How can rest my head on my pillow, as usually put, if innocence might have been tarnished with what my mind saw? Deep down, I don’t want to be wrong. I caused alarm, created a fuss, why wouldn’t I? being the kind of person that does this as always, generating unbalance, the wrong kind of attention, carelessly damaging friendships and other relations. If something is to be revealed as dream during the night, how can you trust it? The scene, returned, it is definitely not the same, and it will surely be biased, what the mind saw again and again. I definitely made that phone call to my mom and she commanded, as mothers do, to either admit it and apologize or shut up, as nicely as she could this time. Maybe the new therapist is working. Whether doing it or succumbing to silence, this will haunt me like the times I caved in face of neediness, coughed without covering my mouth and many, many other times. You don’t even have to look closely and long enough to see the damage. All you have to do is disappoint once, and sulking, or silence, or withdrawals ensue. I hold all the questions while not having many answers. Did it happen or not? Am I being unfair? Can one ever cope with a life that is unsolved?

I had just left my mother in law’s home when we drove by a girl with her back towards us, three or four steps from the sidewalk onto the street. She was black with her hair up, spaghetti straps and flip flops, relaxed, flying a kite. We couldn’t really see it, only her hand motion and a tiny silver line going upwards. As she heard the motorcycle, she turned a bit and looked at us with the corner of her eye, and we could see her baby bump barely covered, probably seven months or so. She looked young and he told me she was probably fifteen or so, he had met her as a very young child when he still lived with his parents.

I remembered having learned how to build a kite in one of those arts projects children inevitably do at school, or for father’s day maybe. I could vaguely see my dad with his perennial cap in such afternoon helping me and my sister to try to fly it. It was something we certainly did only once or twice in such special occasions, we were caught up in other amusements by then. My sister with dogs and sports, me with the tv or a book or those ridiculous teenage girl’s magazines. We were a clichê of what different personalities would be, to a passer-by.

How do you know if what you are writing is poetry or just random randomness? Some poetry does not speak to my sensibility as such (quite often, actually, I’m afraid), so I am sure what I write does not sound as real poetry to others also.

How can you tell? I am asking to learn more about it from a reader’s perspective, not an academic one.

Thanks in advance 🙂


Horizontal lines golden

all tree branches


two gorillas under a warm,

fabricated waterfall

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

You nibble and fondle each other

with paws that stretch

further and further

muzzles that drink

every drop of dew

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

He roams the house

for something to protect

his hands

Opens the fridge for answers

to these wrongs

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

It comes with a sense

of bewilderment

a tell-tale eye-roll

and an inevitable

why not?

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

They race past each other

we hate past no other

limit but our bitter

sorrows can bear

or can’t

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

Are we empty cogs

and gears?

I can’t say I’ve gone

all the way and back

or who ever could

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

But the gorillas hear

the calming sound

of the warm water


on little brown pebbles

And fear no engine

And never burn.





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