The creator

 At a given moment, 
there is no absolute reality 
or truth or existence 
beyond one's set of beliefs, knowledge, 
information, set of conventions and collective mindset, 
and the respective set of contradictions of all the previous categories. 
In our endeavours to find the absolute, 
we simply shift to a different set of all these categories. 
We simply create a new plain of reality. 
We keep pushing our truth 
to cover more space 
and adjust our ever-expanding desires and fears. 
There is nothing to discover, 
There is everything to create--
first in ideas, imagination, emotions, insecurity, expectations and fears; 
secondly, its manifestation in physical reality 
in the domains of art, science, social conventions, economic models, 
everything.

The teachers

Sometimes the things 
that would have come naturally to you 
as a human being 
acquire a difficult shape 
because they try 
to make you learn these by force, 
fearing you won't be of any use without them. 
In your natural state you could have been useful, 
at least like a plant that just grows, 
giving its little share of oxygen, 
shade and a little starter to some hungry goat. 
But the attempt surely leaves you useless -- 
to them at least. 

The door divine

 

Thus speaks the river with its windy roar
and its ripply divinity all pure:

There is a hole in my heart 
that I offer you 
as a passage 
to move on your journey!

The Chief Butler

Caught in our kisses and love-loops,
The ecstatic time pays salutes!

Holy passage

 There is a hole in my heart 
that I offer you as a passage
to move on your journey!

Lotus

 

A discards and junk pile,--

a heap of things having run their last mile;

lying at home,

Rust and dust winning over chrome,

I take it to a dump site,

Fly there scavenging black kite,

A foul-smelling hill

giving a repulsive, obnoxious chill;

strikes you with a stunning sense shrill,

A reverse pit

for our consumerist soul’s shit,

Hanky on the nose

avoid we hellish dose,

The stinking heap,--

excreta born of our growth and leap,

My junk I throw

with breath paused and tensioned brow,

Then I see him work

amid all this squalor and murk,

He works with poise and ease,

Scavenging consumer shit for meager lease,

This is the junk worker’s

office, factory, firm and field

welcoming him with its tiny yield,

He looks at me with a smile,

A flower in odor vile,

He isn’t ashamed or apologetic about his job

where scavenging rodents throb,

He sorts the squalor with ease

unbothered about the dirty, repugnant squeeze,

This is the dirty pit of his karma holy,

Absorbed he is without complex and folly,

His gentle toil

in the mucking soil,

He squeezes the muck

for some survival buck,

His bearing shows he honors it,

Doesn’t cringe and complain a bit

unconcerned about all this shit,

As I dump the waste,

He welcomes me with a smile chaste,

I forget my running haste,

Looking at his smile and honor to his task

without any frowning mask,

I feel at ease

and make him tease,

‘My junk won’t have much,

it's worthless such,’

No problem, he says

with a smile as if he prays,

From my pile takes a little cardboard box,

smiles like a pleased clever fox

and says thank you

with a bright, clear, clean soul’s hue.

The chameleon Casanova

 

In need of love too much,

he turned out such,

A benchmark of love he set

where even the most loving woman won’t bet

to raise the bar,

The nocturnal bird hunting far,

The quest for love best

putting woman after woman to test,

Lifting the drawbridge on one,

welcoming another for more fun,

Softening the brutal blow,

Searching new peaches with better glow

on a fresh face,

Leaving the old ones with teary trace,

Placing funeral wreaths on loves dead,

Their eyes seas sad,

Exploring feminine gold,

The macho spirit bold,

The digger with many affections sold,

An expert miner of love’s tenderness

ready to harness

and dig their tremulous softness

with the spade of his jagged breathing

on their trusting necks,--

sublime infusion of lust and desire

into the veins of love on fire.

 

His love’s insatiable greed

counting as prodigious feat and romantic creed,

Even in a woman’s presence

he feels another’s absence,

He goes with an ease no nonsense,

untouched by accusative conscience,

The enormity of bleeding wounds

and their ghastly vestiges,

or slayed feminine prestiges,

don’t perturb his soul

for the nastily played role.

 

A victim of the frivolous impulse,

naturally ready to repulse

any sense of right or wrong,

Around him the fog of illusions throng,

With a mad craze

he handles their florid rage,

He gives a purified rebuff

to all their lamenting, teary stuff,

He has storage bins

and decorated coffins

to keep, count, bury the loves dead,

Walks with a proud head,

He is reeling with anger vile

under that seductive smile,

Below that cuddling surface grace

he has feverish impertinence hidden on his face.