in me is you

in this particularly sad lonely time

when i think of you

you blend the faces of all

features i remember 

or not

the ones i loved one day

and

ones i have imagined.

in this particularly sad lonely

you bear all the names into a single one

your name

i've always feared and adored

the name i tend to whisper when i get to bed

after a long sleepless night. 

in this particularly sad

i distress into a smile of happiness

never knowing how to find you

or where to look

and

even if my looks are good for you.

in this particular

i imagine you

hidden

into the canvas of my life

as i still know how to paint it. 

in this

i invent you

stuck between these words

waiting to get out.

be free!

in

me

is

you. 

old photo by me

navigating the WEB

jackson pollock - number 1 (lavender mist)

the spider wondered along the thin fragile web

hoping to find

a frightened captive fly

just to have a chat with.

this immense void the web incarnated

boggled him also.

he felt alone,

all day sewing his web strings,

no one to talk to,

no one to ask for an opinion or advice,

no one to share his web with.

and the web,

this overwhelming web,

kept growing

day by day. 

none to find at any end of any thread

the days went by.

in the morning

he takes his coffee

around the north-western corner,

watching the sun blazing up the sky.

he feels relaxed.

at that time you need nobody to talk to,

too early for words or even glimpses.

at brunch

he strolls along the south.

it's warmer there around eleven.

besides, 

you can listen to a Parus Caeruleus 

wondering by that time of day.

it's cozy.

at noon

lunch is best in the west.

a John Wayne feeling overwhelms you.

the five o'clock tea

is yet the best to be

pendulous to a branch

along the northern tree.

and so

at dinner,

the last meal of the day,

accustomed to be lonely,

he creeps unmissed

in a corner to the east.

he can't stand losing

the following morning sunset.

'cause that may be

his only friend.

laying low he falls asleep

waiting.

melancholy

albrecht durer - melencolia 1, 1514

sometimes i cry

cast away within me

saying no words to anybody

just whispers to myself

which i don't want to hear no more

so many words i've said to me

that i know myself no more

can't recognize my eyes crying

can't recognize my voice hidden in whispers

can't recognize my language in so many words

and

nobody knows

just me

when sometimes

i do allow myself

to cry.