I am The Dude,
self-ascribed titan of nothing,
king of no kingdom
except the beautifully ungoverned republic
of right now.

Living life in the moment,
though calendars pretend to matter.
I plan just enough
to give spontaneity something to overthrow.

Bad ass of kindness,
mercenary of mischief,
dealer of absurd observations
and soul hugs disguised as sarcasm.

Psychedelia of people

for as long as I can remember, I have built walls of silence, of defense
but life kept passing by and breaking down a piece of the wall here and there
leaving a void that is hard to fill with a smile

now as I prepare to leave, I review the troops that accompanied me
a few smiles, a few ragged words and the great wall of silence
of which only some blackened ruins remain

a last farewell to silence
a last greeting to the missed hugs
and to all the kisses shattered by the long winters, goodbye

It stood when Christ walked earth below,
Its branches wide, its ancient glow,
A living thing of sky and sod,
A quiet work of nature’s God.

Magnificent from tender birth,
Rooted deep in patient earth,
Yet all that rises, all that lives,
Returns at last to what it gives.

Through countless years it reached the light,
Through storm and season, day and night,
Now laid to rest upon the ground,
Its end becomes what feeds around.

There is another me, her name is the same as mine, Ana,
only in the morning when she wakes her eyes are darker
like my mother’s,
and she speaks to my husband while lying
on my pillow with that cheerful, playful voice of hers.
She kisses my daughter on the forehead, wishing her
good morning, and successfully hides from me
everything that escapes and falls away into the past.
There is, I tell you, another me,
she has the same last name as mine — Karakash —
she reads my books, and imagine!

Before I was made
with black lashes, bright eyes and red lips,
before I saw myself in the mirror,
I searched for your face and did not recognize you,
my blood remained cold, and my heart did not tremble.
My impotent husband is a kleptomaniac,
and his voice is my shell.
I say that I do not want to return
and I pack the unbearable stench
of spilled milk and I know what the lie is for.
I should sit aside and comb my hair.
I should be born again.
I should walk on high heels…
Once I was young,