Edmundo Farolan

The mind lives in a different world embodied in solitude.
Chance, pick chance.
Unwavering influence, abounding friendship, sympathy claims, understanding specks of truth.
Love? An abstraction of the mind.
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….passing through another memory
the drifted memory timed on brinks
flung open like doors,
old women’s chatters,
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Words, words,
words, ideas within;
transitions transformed by life’s borders,
transformations of vulgarity into discretions
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Comfortless and unseated songs:
the hippies have rambled through society’s images.
Lucidity is another reflected synthesis.
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Tears – a human factor.
Do animals cry? Is it only humans who cry?
Death. Human, earthly death.
No one escapes death.
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White flesh parading.
Orange students.
The askance of contemplations.
Thoughts creating thoughts like cigarette smoke from tobacco fire culminating in diffused air.
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Chiau.
It’ll be your fault if you don’t remember.
The Dave Brubeck concert?
Your laundry, stained socks;
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Do you believe in fortunes?
Yes.
But they’re not true.
That’s why I believe in them.
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Maia, my sweetheart, my darling,
When you read this, years from now,
You’ll remember your grandpa
Who carried you to look out the window
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(Inspired by a young Arabian poet)

This sweet crisis of my madness:
You, the blossoming flower of my garden,
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A hunchbacked future.
Khayyam’s “Let’s forget tomorrow for tomorrow may never come.'
To care about tomorrow or to care not?
Two people: no solitude.
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Even songs deceive;
months of reflection and continuity;
yes, life changes;
and maybe, the snow has changed me;
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Vermouth was diluted.
Look at Cowboy grin.
I’m pleasantly bored with my Volkswagen music.
The pool was hot.
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I.

…When the trees asked me why they were in chalked green blackboards, why there were faces drawn in them, why they were philosophical such as “the essence of trees is their being”, or “A tree has both essence and existence.” And trees can also weep because they too have tears inside their leaves, and when they thirst, they suck the earth of its juices from rains that fall and nurture poems, poems as poetic as the green indifference of trees…
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Decisionless:
falseness inherent in our nature
as it is for walls who listen,
speak and shudder,
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I'm a crazy old man now,
a poet blinded by silly illusions,
songs and hopes,
nothing more but fantasies,
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Writers don’t starve;
their Indian spirits are content;
they transcend physical reality
and reach metaphysical heights
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Pretend to be magnetic.
Don’t smoke.
Sing “Laura”, “Fools Rush In”, “You Give Your Hand To Me”,
“Oh, Lonesome Me”, “Buckaroo”, etc.
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With simple smiles
Laughs
Poems
In the dark vagueness
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