1.
At six, or precisely later,
when dawn dawn on us,
our dreams will levitate
our deadened senses,
like sprouting najas
from a rickety crate.
The figments of our lips,
after some hasted debate
will recede, together with
the airy nature of heavier things,
making bodies lay mesmerized:
they’ve known their lows,
they’ve known their highs.
O life!, life bigger than life itself!
Life so far contrived
of so many unreasons and so many wonders,
life full of gags and full of dramas.
And so many indecisions
in the cheap deal between
a lonely jack of hearts
and a diamond-jaded queen.
2.
Meanwhile, out of shallow absinth nonchalance,
why don’t we rejoin later
and go on to dance
in a remote preserve of the age of blame,
longing for long-termed
blessed ignorance.
As the glasses shall dance,
the dealers, escorts and waiters,
bouncers in spades,
the club bartenders,
the blind and the handicapped,
the light through a cleft,
dance, dance, dance!
Twenty eight´s a good number,
but an alternate black outcome
might tear us asunder.
You see method in the utterances of a mumbler?
Then, what might be the odds today
for melting heat or pouring rain?
What the odds for hail or an early frost?
What the chances for the season to start again?
3.
A man of unflinching will
will resist the weather.
A man, like a tree, is to be
told by the features of his fruits
(if not by the squalor
of his best boots...).
But what if some
unsung December,
resurrecting from its embers,
unhinges time, so the season
loses its temper,
bitingly robbing him of
the very rest of the crop?
A method, that is probably
all what was just needed
or maybe just an extra glass of whisk,
would you please),
for how else could one be stopped
from being tempted to read
between the lines, gestures and fingers
a law better to be hidden?
4.
She was in her late twenties,
in the heyday of her beauty,
too uptight to take life so seriously,
too callous to be wrapped in new things,
all the more sophisticated to give in
to feelings of fuzzy subtlety.
Her husband, a well-bred
young gentleman, of fine figure
and a set of good teeth,
was the very sum
of all marital virtues
a man of her class
should earn or possess.
Why then would she dump
her husband for a dumb,
foolish and despicable
aging romeo?
And I insisted, I, a man of respect,
I swear I did even beg.
Gradually resilience turned into indifference and let
me know that as yet, the jeux were faits.
5.
A mild lightened crystal chandelier
plundered from some eviction wreck
scatters its swirl of light sherds,
over herds of penniless gamblers,
drilling their shrills tinklingly into
already overburdened sight nerves.
Moles care to hold hoaxes and bouts at bay,
but drinking to the very brink of inconvenience
a preserved specimen of the antique clientele
has yet his jokes to crack
before the waiter brings him the check.
And so it is each morning,
as first you are told, and later testimony.
In the vermillion wall a venetian mirror looks at us awry,
like an absent-minded passer-by
that goes past us in a hurry.
Opposite, a floating watch, jealous of its twin,
sulks and takes to humming,
like a snoring moon in a tropical sultry sky:
time performs its ticking,
time performs its ticking.
6.
Eventually, later than they only should,
over the lawn and fences,
over our inattentive glances,
ghosts of all stocks suddenly surge in
and begin to loom around the room,
dauntingly real.
And, at the close of play,
what was lost, what was gained?
Why could I ever thought, against all odds,
that I still stood any chance?
How can fatality be prevented?
Maybe all had already been lost
even before we began it.
O life!, life bigger than life itself!
Life so far contrived
of so many unreasons and so many wonders,
life full of gags and full of dramas.
And so many a resolution
as his hand turns back in
a necklace he was told to be gold,
but finally found out made of tin.
7.
And yet one must lament his luck
and his misfortune all the same,
take on both his bloom
and his doom,
one must, I repeat, in the end,
repent his very repentance.
And so purged of all scourge that make up
the human condition (if there is such), pretend not to see
his stakes dropped all over the ground,
bending to gather his fruits wherever they happen to fall,
facing the faces, smiling at strangers,
even frowning on the usual clouds,
and then finally retreat, after all.
And as I listen to the morning talking the tolls of time,
I question how it got us robbed of ours,
performing its always uniform
tick-tacking, tack-ticking, as if preparing for its flicking.
Hey Sir, per chance, beyond any bluff at hand,
what is the genuine chance of still earning some grands?
And would you mind if I dreamt of some,
long overdue and numb, transcendence?
