Don’t suitable

This town is not suitable, no more

I want to live in New York

or Manhattan

or Tokyo

or even

Tel Aviv

I want to live in a cosmopolitan city

not in this hole

where nothing happens

and the best that I can do

is to write poems

without rhyme

The old man

Old man, Old man

where are the springs of your youth ?

Where are the loveable teens opening

their legs to you

Like the flowers open their petals to the sun.

Do you remember what is to watch at your future and see:






Do you remember, old man, the breeze in your face

and your hair

dancing in the wind ?

Old man, old man

years made you wise, made you the eldest of your tribe

But who is searching your advice now,

old man, old man

You remember but the time will not return

the spring of your youth

is now a hump in your back.

A letter to my dad

I wish you could see me now, dad,
I turned to be a strong man, a worker, a lover, a passionate for life.
I wish I could talk with you now, dad,

receive advice from you, your critic to my works,

without fighting anymore.
I wish I could know you now, dad,

without the preconceptions of your divorce from mom.


But you are gone now, dad,

and you can’t never come back.


(R.I.P. Juan Carlos Torres)

Dimentions of the self

In the darkness

enter the phantasm of my dreams


Music resound in the air


ambient fog

mystic winds


through music

in a dimension unknown

everything eternal

pass out in a moment

of grief

words run through my mind


in another dimension

another self


a poem

in ancient language.


(I did like to take pictures of your eyes …

… if only dreams become real

and madness never show)


I told her that my biggest secret is

that I can’t dance.

I can’t dance,

of course, 

but that’s not a secret,

I can’t swim too,

But I can write


I can tell her the most beautiful things

that she could hear

in her whole life


Instead of doing that





(… in the dance floor…)

“How you write so much ?”

Here I’m

at days of quit

my job

and having nothing in hand,

sitting in my bed


of a friend that asked me

“How you write so much ?”


I need to write

like I need to breath

I need to get ideas

out of my head.

But I don’t write too much,

I write the necessary

to survive

the monotony of every day.

untitled No. 11

Nobody knows

how we knit the words,

Even us

we even don’t know.

They go out by themselves,

The words,

have life in themselves

have a heart

have a soul.

It’s like breathing,

It’s not like going to work,

We make it automatically,

nobody forces us to do so.


I push yourself

to stop reading,

to take a pen and

to create worlds

to put feelings into action,

just …

… let the rhymes flow.