A man without a  face
is remembered.

It’s a dream.

The five islands
are stained in colors,

and they begin
with the corners of Navarro
and Houston street.

Thin clusters
known for
recycling drugs,
recycling heat.

The smell of burning sage
a sharp knife,
and vacant mouths
of ancient women
clinging onto memories.

These are consequences
of rituals.

Building closets
for the voices
of those who

the war is over
the war is over.

A  man without a face
is remembered.

It’s a dream,

and do you know where the sun goes at night?
They say somewhere
inside the moon.

But it’s a dream,
and everyone knows
the sun and moon
have died.

was born from
a yellow hue.




The number of rose bushes
equal the number of genocides.

The world forgets
the silk flowers
have answers.

Listen to see
the fold
of four truths.

the shape
of ancestors.


forgotten self.

permanent details.

We were born in a state of balance,
born on the lines of
the spontaneous Dao.  

We are dragged
blue and fragile.

Despair learns how to
sit on the kitchen table.

The light at noon becomes weak,
and this is the time
in which I do not trust myself.
He said he was born from the sea,
not stardust.

He said he was born from the landscape
before the Buddha.

He said it is a contagious thing to believe
in something that isn’t real.

He said I have no Atman

He said I have to become someone
I have not met.

He said he emerged from a place
that was not his birthplace.

He said the cosmos
were lost in translation.

He said we are trouble,
and neurosis never dies.

meadows full of
brown eyes
melt into towers
of dried grass fields.

There is a tight repetition
of drawing circles
until the traces
become a mess,
a grey mind.
South tunnels
made of dim exhaustion.

Fertile green composition
weigh down frontiers of the horizon.
Signatures sign the sky
with thick cloud veins,
thick blue veins
spilling drops of blood
of a person you didn’t know existed.

Windstorms always carry
heavy fear of losing everything.

He said in order to gain anything,
you must lose everything.  

The sky becomes a changing self
a yellow and pink karma flowing
between the pale trees,
and dead bees.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

This tinted dust scene,
an obsessive engagement with disruption.                                                                                                        
A touch of soil
the dissolution,
a smell of dark rich wet ashes
rising from the failure
of the West.

He said the fields, the animals, the holiness
will become grey as the mind.

interrupting the sun.

On this day I meditated,
upon the past.

On this day I mediated
on my knees in front of the virgin mary.

On this day I meditated
with the smell of incense,  
an everlasting sight.

On this day I meditated
and saw Trungpa’s face.

He said he wanted an anarchy,
instead he got tibetan states of dreams.

On this day I mediated
and fell asleep.

He said that happens
because you are healing.

On this day I mediated on red cushion.

On this day I mediated underneath a tree.

On this day I mediated
and traced my fingers on those dead bodies.

Those dead bodies were mine.

On this day I mediated
on the color green.

On this day I mediated on forgotten love.

On this day I mediated on
the lifetime in which
you existed.

On this day I mediated
and asked myself
how many times have you died?

My mother stopped me,
and told me to stop saying that word.
Now every time I look at her
the word death repeats on my mind.

On this day I mediated
and lost all my troubles.

On this day I mediated
and I couldn’t trust myself.

On this day I mediated on
all those contagious things.

All those contagious things
that make reality empty.

On this day I mediated on
the nausea of you.

My mother said he shouldn’t make you feel sick.

On this day I mediated,
and lost.

On this day I mediated on
the sound of wood.

On this day I mediated
and got strange looks.

On this day I mediated
and you died.

You fell deep into yourself,
your truest self and didn't survive.

He said you need stop and meditate.

On this day I mediated to a place
beyond suffering.

On this day I mediated.

Nothing happened.

Something is still digesting,
the thought that everything can be set on fire.
The violent
acceptance of death.


You are not supposed to be here,

the thin line of insanity
collapsing your lungs
into something
that doesn’t know
how to keep air.  

watching people become
modern slaves
your mouth shut.

With the walls of LSD
melting a person
that you are not suppose
to become.

Orange melting
Green melting,
Reds of Pinks melting
Oranges of Yellows melting
Blues of Greens melting.

You are not supposed to be here,

Watching Ginsberg
read Marx underneath
the sycamore tree.

You are not supposed to be here,
thinking of the angelic

Remembering the smells
of history hallways.

You are not supposed to be here.

Accepting the places
you are not supposed to be.


I ran into a monster
monster won
-Allen Ginsberg

The Magician is
followed by The Tower,

fire is spreading
Earth is spitting.

Soul has left body
and now you are stuck
in a single reality.

You are betrayed
by your greatest assistant, decay.

You crawl
humid air
looking for ground.

A Samadhi Ecstasy
echoing Amens inside July.

The Parasites
to breed,
to relapse
the dreamer
back into a dream.

And all those monsters have won
every war of every war,

but there aren’t the ones
we should be worrying about.

As you know this is only the
beginning of the end,

and the grass
still sprouts
at the end.
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