A Day After
I hardly can keep my eyes open. The dining table is full of what I like or have liked at one point in my time. My dad's handmade ceramic pots with flowers, a few crystals I bought in Czech Republic in 1995, and baskets. The heater is on, and it makes funny noise. I am almost done with the boxes in the kitchen. My fingers are dry. I am going to have to put almond oil on them before I collapse to sleep. It has been snowing and there will be more snow, heavy snow, over here near D.C., the state I have moved to from Connecticut. I had planned to go shopping for the day after, for my first reading in English, from my new book. There will be another poet reading, an American. I wonder how you would sound reading to me. I want to hear you read me your writings. I wonder if your voice changes when you read, if it sings, if it echoes, if it's cruel, if it worships, and makes love to the words. I imagine you reading to me. Do you know what you will do to me when you read? Do you know that I will fly eagle like over the mountain tops? Do you know that the thought of your voice, you, mesmerises me? Do you know you are an absolute, an absolute man, an absolute human, an absolute beauty, an absolute poem? I like you more than I can write. I love you more than the words can ever express the feelings. I wonder why you don't want to touch me. Is it because I am fragile? I say break me. Break me to as many pieces as you can but touch me. Don't hesitate thinking about the pieces, about the breaking, about my fragility. So what if I break. So what if I am fragile. I would rather break in your hands, by your hands, at your feet, as you watch me break, my breaking. I want you to break me into as many pieces as you can and a thousand pieces more, a thousand times more, a thousand lives over and again. It will be breaking free from what I am in whole without you, for what i want: to be in pieces yet be reflected in your eyes for thirty-four seconds, to break into my freedom from a whole that isn't a whole without your touch.
One Day or Not
You know I see you as all the writers I have loved century after century, all the poets I have wanted to write to, to be written by, to write for years after years. All the poems, the books that have moved me, all the lovers I have loved life after life you are the man I have fallen for, a man I want to write to forever, to make love to whenever, to drink his pure spring water anywhere, everywhere, to be touched by all over, to be made love to by you over and over, whenever, wherever. Who are you? Who are you who makes me touch myself and my ears ring, jealous of my own touch that is not the touch directed by your fingers. You are my resting place, the place of love, my love, a love that is not selfish, a love that doesn't care to hold forever, doesn't question, a desire that doesn't want ownership, a love that is in full colors, in full blossom thinking of you, and half when it recalls of the touch that may happen one day or not. You know, I have walked in many streets, have lived in too many rooms, apartments, homes. I have eaten too many different cuisines, have traveled, and dressed in too many ethnic clothing. I speak languages and understand, read and write in several. I know too many words but your words are the ones that I want to sleep on. Your voice is the voice I want to echo in my street, your skin is what I want to taste; your mind is what I desire to learn its language. I want to make you see me as I see me in love-loving you without a standard, a limit, principles, borders, or an expiration date but I can't reach you alone. How am I to reach you?