top of page

vibrant masks

as I disappear, into a pumping muscular heart, that sometimes hurts,

i see masks/ personae ,

shaped by shades of light and dark

on the faces of people.

but the masks, do not haunt me anymore,

they are not inside of me.

they are not outside, either.

the mongol warrior,

(is he Hieronimo, who is mad again ?)

my Godmother, framed by wavy white hair ,

finally in peace with her loneliness,

looking me in the eyes,

with so much love.

the quiet nun,

a young traveller returning to the Amazon

to be closer to the source of vibrant matter

madre tierra.

(the desire to be intoxicated with the summer heat,

the flesh, fur, and faeces that ferment earth,

la tierra ,

into worms, luscious eccentric plants)


i sit in the chair and face the male mirror.

and i feel

how the sun and moon dissolve, when you conquer the anxiety of dying.

when you meet it with courage.


unlacing the tight nodes of shit, through the hands of spirit.

we find awareness also there,

in the wavelength of a bodily sensation of

in motion

so so paradoxically serene.

the heart pumping, a-syncopated rythms,

the breath swirling bloody particles of dust

in and out the entropic body

of decaying matter "i/us".

gods with anus, worms with superpowers

all desiring to transcend through the interstellar corridors of



you go there, to the core, and you wait.

beyond the core, you kind of meet the becoming matter-self

as a vanishing conduit,

that when intoxicated,

suddenly discovers it won't be here everyday

it never was, every day.

i met him, finally,

the one who has died.

now I understand what Eliot says:

"we die with the dying: see, they depart, and we go with them. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them."

why shall i look for an intersubjective safety wood-nest

if it will never be here?

why not just surrender down the cliff?

he says:

"be still and let the dark come upon you.

the growing terror of nothing to think about"

and trust that it will softly transform into bliss.


i am repeating myself.

shall I say it again?

i met him, the one who died

when i returned, he returned with me,

as no more than a vanishing vibrant mask

as I am.

12 views0 comments
bottom of page