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12397.
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the real enemy...
it is not late
the wind finally knows its enemy
it was not the tree that it uprooted in one of its storms
not the clouds that it had blown with rage
not the sea whose waves it tumbled in a tsunami
not even the boats it sank
not pitying the passengers and crew who were swallowed
its whirlpools have been wrong
upon itself it must know
its winds its own storms
its enemies all
at the
end.
RIC S. BASTASA
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12398.
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the real house where we ought to live
the real house where we ought to live
have no pillars
and walls and fences
no kitchens and sinks
and toilets
do not grumble, that is the truth
no wind destroys it
no sun scorches it
no rain seeps
it is not the house of nothingness
discover it yourself
RIC S. BASTASA
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12399.
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The Reality Of These All
at night she tiptoes to the doors of
our waking thoughts
we are amazed at the images of light
eaten by the mouth of darkness
the Muse stares at the interplay of
good and evil
there is simply no word for who shall win
and then we are tired
our eyes begin to fail and our body gives in
buried in the darkness of the night
then we are taken in the world of dreams
where everything becomes possible
what we were not in those waking days
the dreams hand them all
broken hearts mended
fortunes flow
luck is abundant as the fish in the oceans
there is a crowd of success and bliss
but you know the limits of all these
soundless worlds
and those who refuse to wake up
simply die.
RIC S. BASTASA
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12400.
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the reality of touch
not everything can be imagined
lest your words become the 3D leeches
that do not really exist
pure breeze from a mountainside of nowhere
it is safe to open the door
go down the stairs
walk along the street
feel the sun on top of your head
swim in the air of this city
dive into the crowd
hear their open conversations
listen to the horns of the cars
create more distance
tire your feet
sweat things out
making thoughts more sensitive to the twitches of the faces of all the people
that you meet
carefully evaluate
the lines of the tongue in cheek
scrutinize
slips of their tongues
follow the lines of the curve body of the woman that you love
using the soft tip of your tongue
the power of taste-buds
one cannot really just survive on the theoretical wings of angels
the feet of the dragon phoenix
the prancing hands of the
wooden saint
shallow and deflatable
as toy balloons are
do not draw the street and alleys in your mind
with a
wind pencil
walk upon them and feel
the water and the mud
and pebbles and sands
to every pore of your skin
feel the tickle of the bacteria of the
mind
RIC S. BASTASA
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