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The white cat  |  The moon rose silvery...   |  On The way home   |  I love starry nights...   |  Warrior   |  Gabriela (2)   |  4 o’ clock in the morning   |  the way you cling to me ...   |  The light the leaves filter   |  Song of Yearning Rain   |  Why am I visited...   |  Moonlight ghost   |  The many things you were before  |  Final flight  |  Aware  |  Unusual March (with Bobo)  |  Dagger

The White Cat

The white cat was my brother,
He rubbed my beard, He ate my food
and He drank my water,
and this is how I know it.
The white cat was my brother,
He loved the same flowers, the same woman,
the same child.
And I know so that the white cat
was my brother,
for He gave his warmth when I was ailing
and He ran to join me
through gardens and fences
when I came back home.
The white cat was my brother,
He was lost when He found me,
and I have been lost ever since He left me
I know He was my brother,
for I was the last who held him
and the last thing his eyes saw
before He took my happiness away.
in memoriam Perdido...
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The moon rose silvery...

The moon rose silvery from behind a cloud,
and a thin veil of vapour made her appear
like an old time Hollywood star
in a glamour picture
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On the way home

Spring moonrise by the sea.
(The moon is on fire.)
I wish we could share the joyful sorrow
of its ephemeral beauty.
(I must hurry back home, safely...
to pour this words into a page.
If I die carrying a poem,
will it die with me?)
On the way home the old litter
nobody has gathered,
I recognize as familiar friends:
A wrecked can of beer,
A yellow take-out food container,
The slug that crawls on it,
That I don’t remember.
Time has passed...
The clouds have eaten the moon,
The night has grown hostile
and the poem is dead.
The poet stares bewildered
at the lifeless keyboard.
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I love starry nights,

& all animals on this earth,
& women with buttocks like mares’...
I love the smell of coffee,
& the softness of young cheeks,
& the freshness of the air on a sea-night.
I love to love,
Because loving soothes the anguish
& after all, I am utterly lonely here,
with my anguish, waiting for her
to ready up and take me home
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She came to him in a dream,
but he knew he wasn’t dreaming
she said "I won’t stay long,
when you’ve fallen asleep they’ll take me."
He asked "who are they?"
and there was no answer but a kiss.
He fought sleep for what seemed ages,
he drank coffee, and took up smoking again,
he watched out for her, night and day
and they wouldn’t make their move...
He drank coffee, smoked and paced the room.
She sat and looked at him,
and a sour smile began to dwell
at the birthplace of her lips.
The time dragged slowly
and he became tired and enraged.
Soon they grew weary of each other,
and they remained together only for the battle.
When he woke up, there was no trace of her.
They had taken her. Even her smell was gone.
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The deep seated fear. The need. The absence.
The toil of love itself,
lying powerless at the feet of ecstasy.
The countless stars that share your name now,
Your arms like twigs and grass
building nests every night.
My sorrow in your chest, vanishing like a shadow
at nightfall.
Our child, our boy, our man
- soon to be our barren lot -
our joint and single destiny, our immortality.
Our struggle to remain together.
Our struggle to grow apart.
The brutal sounds of love and fight,
the whispers.
The toys, our ambassadors the toys.
Our ambassadors: the flowers,
the carefully prepared meals,
the bed well tended - with tight fresh sheets
and crisp pillows, the books.
The returning birds of the lazy mornings.
The unassuming gestures
and the various misreadings.
The unanimous choices.
Chamomile and coffee.
Waking numb after a nap that outlasted its welcome.
The anguish without warning,
the need to bury my face in your lap.
The spontaneous beauty of the animals,
the joy we get from it.
The communion in the joy,
and the rebirth it brings.
Every inch of your revered body.
Bring them back to me,
I love you.
Victoria, BC. 3:13 am. Monday, January 11, 1999
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4 o’ clock in the Morning

If I could sleep...
A shadow crossed my window,
a rather slight shadow.
My back was turned to it,
but I could still see how the moonlight
fainted on the dresser
and in the nightly horizon
of the bedroom wall.
Friday, January 29, 1999
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the way you cling to me some nights

... the way you cling to me some nights,
when you are afraid perhaps of death
and other things lurking in the dark,
and then you fall asleep calmly
leaving me fearful
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the light the leaves filter . . .

The light the leaves filter . . .
What’s left outside,
Who gets it?
The shiny faces stare back at the sun,
All at unison.
A choir of monodic leaves.
The house is fresh, and liveable
The breeze sneaks in every once in a while.
The music of a distant mower
buzzes through the siesta mood.
The sheets are white
and the pillows puffed anew.
The cover carefully rests
Folded on the seat,
The water glass is full and clean
on the night table,
the glasses folded on top of the book,
the bookmark propped neatly,
- three quarters in and against the spine -
The hands are crossing lightly
at the summit of the chest,
The legs lie together
conspicuously stretched and parallel,
There is no smile
- there has been no smile for some time -
The eyes are closed against all nights,
against all lights,
against all hope.
Tuesday, May 18, 1999
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Song of Yearning Rain

to Dean and Lily
Let me be the touch under your hand,
the choir of the rain
beyond the window.
Let me be the silk over your chest,
the shadow of your flesh
timidly beneath your skin.
Let me be the breeze between your fingers
and the prayer flowing through your lips.
Let me sit the night outside your door,
keep bad dreams at bay ,
until the day breaks
Let me be the warmth against your toes,
the nightmare of your foes.
Let me be tomorrow.
Victoria, Wednesday, November 22, 2000
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Why am I visited by this winter nights of graying moonlight?
This bright blue gray piercing implacable light
that permeates it all, invades sleep and wake me
to this place where time and space has been frozen,
where you can see it all, and recognize none,
where nothing is far but everything is distant.
This merciless moonlight brings me unwanted wisdom:
I wake with a raw awareness of the whole.
I am privy to the secrets of death and of the infinite,
-of which only a small fraction are the secrets of life -
And yet I can not touch this things with my mind,
I can not search them for answers.
Or solutions.
I am locked outside of their understanding,
while intimately aware of their inexorable truth.
I turn around to seek comfort in the warmth of your body.
I hug you, but we remain two.
I even make love to you on those gray and cold nights,
And we still remain two.
For there is no one-ness in the cold light,
There is a sentence to loneliness in knowing the proportions of things,
How little time we have to love each other,
before spending such long lonesome eternity.
Victoria, Monday, June 25, 2001
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Moonlight ghost

Pursued by the echo of my own footsteps
I thought of you as I crossed the big plaza.
The moonlight leaning on my shoulders
I remembered how much you had wanted to be there.
And as the light grew colder and thinner and bluer,
so my heart grew.
I tried to see the night with your eyes once again,
I often fancied that I carried you with me.
But as each step brought me further from my destination,
the plaza grew bigger, emptier, colder, meaner,
and so my heart grew.
In timelessness lost, of time rid and excepted
by the moonlight transparent, lifeless, hollow cold,
I knew I could not wish we were together,
for I could not wish you this moonlight death.
The steps grew louder, and then dimmer and then faint,
and so my heart grew
Victoria, Tuesday, June 26, 2001
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The many things you were before

You asked me if I could ever live
with the many things you were before
I let on that the gist of memory
is how it only fails us when we need it the most,
but that i’d aways remember to forget
anything you might tell me about yourself.
You borrowed my name for a moment,
you moaned it a couple of times,
as I recall, you called that loving me
and while our bodies were pressed hard against each other,
I believed you,
And I was satisfied.
You always said you’d leave me without warning,
-I guess that was a warning of some kind -
I had no reason to be surprised.
No right to be sad or feel dejected.
I looked around just for the sake of the gesture,
and to make certain you had ever been here.
Victoria, Friday, March 22, 2002
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Final Flight

Final flight
She said: "It’s not that I am out of love,
for I don’t think I have ever truly loved you.
I just don’t want to try to save you anymore."
So I fell eternally when she let go of my hand.
I fell past the routines and the sex and the warmth,
past the aloofness and the pain it always brings,
past the begging for love, the humiliation of denial,
the feelings of un-worthiness and emptiness.
I saw myself clawing at them,
trying to grab them to break my fall.
It seems that in worrying about the drop
I chose each time the heavier burden.
Perhaps I was too afraid to turn myself around,
look towards the sky rather than to the approaching earth,
and for whatever time was left
faithfully hold that I was finally flying.
Victoria, April of 2004
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the things you never write about are the ones beyond the basement,
you never say: the mortar,
you never say: the rebar,
you never mention the kinks in the puppeteer's lines
you never tell of the threads in the cords that keep the vessel to the dock
let's write then, today, about the charcoal that left behind the diamond,
the thing that is neither the climax nor the slow death or birth of the motion,
not the snow capped peak nor the single point at its perpendicular axis,
the nothing that makes the everything and everywhere,
let us talk not about love or hate or about sublime indifference,
but about a hand, perfectly quiet and perfectly light,
a hand lying between the important somewheres of her,
right at the point that has no name of consequence,
a name no man knows, because it doesn't bring you to anything,
a hand you cannot even see, because the nameless place has no light,
in the dark of the night, under the cover's own night,
but a hand that is even in its detachment, unrelentingly aware
and a disconnected dreamer that is, somehow, complete
Alejandro Wainer
Tuesday, 26th of October of 2010
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Unusual March (with Bobo)

The discarded oak leaves shone
as autumn's fruits in the evergreen bush.
The rain pointed the way home and we followed.
Me one one end of the leash, and Bobo on the other.
Sometimes I lead, sometimes I didn't, but I never was the master.
The morning sun was sleeping in behind an army throw.
As a drunk drummer's fingers on the parchment of the drum,
the falling drops struck the pools that sprouted in the street,
marking a stuttering rhythm of ungainly progress
for Bobo and I, walking back home under the pouring rain.
Victoria, November 1st of 2010
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You're a dagger
You hurt me,
you hurt me, you hurt me.
You hand me the gift of loneliness.
You leave me alone and new
alongside your sleeping ghost.
You're a dagger, you pierce me,
you bleed me like an old-time doctor
'til no hope lives in my veins.
You are brutal, you tear me, I love you.
Victoria, October 14 of 2011