Classes, hours
streets...
The VETO right over sunrise,
heads of concrete...

As water takes the shape
of the vase,
So does man take
the elaborate shape of the maze
in its underscored power.

Witness to its own trial
the owl takes the early morning shower
in defile,

Flowers, cars, dogs and rogues
ogres and togas,
all in today's showcase,
Shadows glued to stones, and moans
put up the pace,

Oh, our place isn't here,
our drink it is not the alcohol-free beer,
Our sadness cannot be foreseen
by this drunk seer,

We cannot be so far
and so near
in the same time...

No next generation,
No Coca Cola,
No roller blading,

Oh, we are whining
on this slim obscure ledge
of the glass,
On this slim unseen edge
of the highest roof
where proof stands the wine
that we goofed the morning...

Another beginning, another beginning,
new H3O water,
a new pattern to life's meaning...

Roads, cement, blue-jeans scent
and freedom of betrayal,
Long-short, short-long hair and pictures,
dozens, hundreds, thousands pictures
in all known and unknown positions,
in different pixels...

Absence of patience and sunglasses
(all colors, all shapes)
as many in numbers as the tapes
signed The Beatles,
hanging by the smiles of the masses:
children, grown-ups, dogs and inapts,
even frogs with kisses on hold,
with toys worn
and
parents not even yet born,

All...alone...
The pavement...
the torment always slipping,
a weeping target
a weeping tear near the highlands of Tibet
raging as a soul-flower
and aging
as the minute with a full hour,

Kisses, lots of kisses
made of dirt...
A whole world made up from ashes,
put together with bold characters
and with plane and car crashes,

Slavery...
the slavery of the many over the few,
Of the blue
over the ravaging landscapes,
The evolution taken from Homo erectus
all the way to the apes,
All the way to here from nowhere,
with haze placing its bones
on the empty space left by air,

The wind...
screened by huge illusion wavers,
In taverns,
in the subways,
In what's left from
the aftermath of suburbs...

Hunters with bows,
-handmade bows -
shooting imaginary arrows
at imaginary crows, over the sunset
with wounds cauterizing,
Wounds which have never been bled
wounds which have never been read
by the eye of the dagger,

Losing words and verses
and numbers
with whom I never took aim at the heart
of my girl,

Gray...gray sky, by which
never passing, at its gates it can be seen
eagerly awaiting -a ray of light -
wanting to try...

Empty Mondays, Tuesdays. Fridays,
empty truths,
all dressed in boots, leather boots
from Elizabeth Arden's,

And tall buildings
knocking, knocking in the window of God
with their knuckles- born frauds,

Statues of wax on pedestals
dig on the inside with holes
for the extra dimensional doors,
With claws
and sitting in the front rows
for the unawaited pseudo-accident to happen...

Embryo world
with microscopic, ultra-microscopic
stories left to told
in laboratories made up by the hand
of the hand of the hand of the hand of the hand,
with beginning, half-happening
and multiple end,

Replacing...flesh with polymers
and bones with structures of metal,
with chromosomes divided in pairs
and as philosophy of life, placing
the story of Hansel & Gretel,

Replacing memory with wolves
and the imagination
with propaganda walk-throughs,
And the childhood with imaginary dolls
with the face and smile of Tom Cruise,

All chairs occupied...
love by the airwaves,
all so brave-
circumcised sailors.