Sin Remedio

No soy la única,
la única que dice
sería preferible
morirme que
ir aguantando este dolor,
este dolor que ya no me quite,
este dolor que esta vació
vació de todo
pero lleno de vació
como por allá las estrellas
están rodeadas por
nada y por todo,
por todo
aunque ya no haya cielo
las estrellas ya se
huyeron por otro universo,
ni que me conozco
esta piel que un día
brillaba amarilla y azul
llena de sol
que el sol estaba celoso de
los colores que atravesaban
mi alma como un prisma
colores como olas del mar
corriendo a su amante la playa,
no reconozco el rostro que
me mira por el espejo
esta fantasma me dice
que el mundo se ha
transformado a otro
galaxias al revés, deshechas
no seré la ultima
buscando, llorando
sin Dios sin remedio,
que tampoco soy la primera
que conozca esta sorpresa --
ya existen
otras historias de amor
preguntas y respuestas de siglos pasados
polvo, sombra, silencio
el gran volumen
llevado en manos temblando
estrechado entre los brazos
como si fuera palabra de Dios
una carga de aire
este gran tomo
dejado en bibliotecas
caído por el suelo al lado
de camas
vientos de noche
susurrando 
pasando por las ventanas 
casi cerradas --
no soy la única
yo sabía tanto
sin que yo soy la única
que reconociera los pasos
lentos y ciertos
de su
salir.

Thursday Afternoon

It's funny this

    getting used to,

seems like it 

comes in 

wa  v  es. 

    

       As usual

I had an

idea

    of how it would

look

once it 

happened.  Formulas

I am always looking

for 

formulas.  And trying to fit everything

into

      a

box.

I [closed]

myself

up

into a

    cardboard house and

pulled the top

d

o

w

n

onto

            me.

I learned to 

        get over

it

the way you

get over

losing

everything

/

except

life.  And then one day you think it is                

all done.

You

open

the

box

and

come

o          u          t.

But on Thursday

there

we all were and you walked

    in

smiling

the five of us

as though one 

(was I the only one who noticed

?)

the secret was hidden in 

plain sight

and

then

you

    kissed my cheek when you

left.

This getting over it business

is funny.  Sometimes

it 

comes

back

in

        waves.

All Before Breakfast

 

Physicists have theory and forces,
Cosmologists the quark and black hole,
Philosophers are after life’s meaning,
but I want to understand soul.


I'm after its very beginnings,
whence it comes, how it came, why it does;
I’ve jillions and zillions of questions—
Here’s the reason I’m asking: Because.


I wonder if soul was created
when the universe came with a Bang.
Was atomic combustion our father?
Is God yin to the physicist's yang?


Perhaps the soul dwells in the helix
undeciphered mathematical codes,
whose secrets we’ll one day uncover
and poetically translate as prose.


Could it be that natural selection
can explain the presence of soul,
and Darwin's theory of evolution
shows the pattern from partial to whole?


Is the soul prenatally inchoate?
Is it a remnant, like a gill?
Is it only for decoration?
Is it something you can kill?


Was half carried inside of your father?
Did your mother contribute part, too?
Could it be that with fertilization
the soul starts to grow within you?


Does the soul appear with the hearbeat?
Is it expressed along with the first kick?
Can you pinpoint the time in gestation
when from not the soul transforms to quick?


Could it be that the soul is generic,
universal, just one-size-fits-all,
with no choice of model or color,
neither toddler, nor plus-size, nor small?


Or maybe it’s rather specific,
and each soul's just one of a kind,
belonging to only one person,
each recipient on purpose assigned.


I could posit soul numbers are finite,
each delivery dwindles supply,
until heaven’s storehouse is empty,
its wellspring completely run dry.


Or what if we're really each other
on a Recycled Souls family tree?
If I traced your genealogy,
would I discover you're me?


But maybe the soul is amorphous,
indescribable, something like blue,
and no science can ever reveal
this invisible essence that’s you.


Does the soul continue without us?
Is it somewhere in time and in space?
When this life as we know it is over
is the soul metamorphosed by grace?


If Soul minus X were a constant,
and soul’s wavelength a factor of time,
if soul were explained as a function,
would this mean that the soul's not sublime?


Maybe God is behind all creation,
and we each have a purpose and plan,
the soul sheer enigmatic reminder
of all that we don’t understand.


Alas! I am only a poet—
God’s existence is over my head;
neither master of physics nor numbers,
I'm a master of questions instead.


And I'm weary of all of this wondering.
In the end, all I want is one sign:
If each soul has a predestined other,
tell me how I will recognize mine!