Search This Blog


Lincoln, NE

poco a poco, por lo general jueves en la tarde
o sábados al mediodía, me curaste una rodilla
la paciencia de tus dedos y el calor de tus pausas
obraron su típica magia en cuestión de instantes

todo era instantes en tu diariovivir, tu procesión
por las esquinas estallando a colores y deteniéndote
ante los desbocados, los que han perdido todos
sus colores, la ralea de inconformes y doblados,
pero sedientos de eso que destilas con tanto cuidado
y difundes con una profunda calma oceánica

andrea taconea las aceras y retumban los pasos
concatenan las miradas y reposan las palmas
las manos y la insistencia digital que palpa
y diagnostica, incisiva y contundente, como
suelen ser los contactos decisivos que sorprenden
con la luz de un nuevo día asomándose por encima
del espejo roto, óptica que triplica los misterios
y suaviza la sombra desos ojos achinados por el viento

lo que recuerdo de ti es lo que perdí:
la vergüenza, el miedo, la culpa, la pregunta
lo que olvido en tu ausencia es el descanso
la luna, la respuesta, la sensación del frío

lo que sí sé es que por alguna irresistible sinrazón
una noche sin luna compartimos nuestros secretos


one man's trash

if i were to collect all the little pieces
broken or not
of the many words that were exchanged
i could build an enormous temple to the silence
that follows decisions we later wish we hadn't

love is usually perfect in retrospect
blind or not
it tends to fill the myriad tiny holes
we like to poke in our narrative thread
and relish to erase from our carefully curated
desires for twins, for blood, for whatever
we end up hiding from everyone else

if i were to buy you flowers
real or not
chances are they would be discarded
quietly, in the same way we tear
the blank pages we are unable to use
to commit to memory the ugly signs
that were there glaring at us all along


Title TK

You told me I was like a year abroad
A place where you grasp the rudiments of speech, but still have to gesture a lot. There are those who stare awkwardly, clock their heads to the side in grotesque obviousness. You can almost hear them gasp.
I countered with a real injury, the unavoidable handicap: a limp, a slight reluctance. A deep breath. It is then that the cats appear, working their sparkly, static chemistry. My eyes are too lazy to take anything in anyways, but my ears never miss a beat.
Then Fall all over again. Leaflike, your foliage drops away, leaving you stark against the window, city lights licking your face, dancing in your eyes. I get it. But I let it go and go on. It will soon be too cold to stand outside, to walk everywhere we like. Maybe the snow will bury the smell of your effortless presence. It is the distinct fragrance of wanting it all in such a short time.
Decades will topple all over each other, making the passage of time labor intensive. It never works to look over your shoulder, it's hard to see the faces in those little paper squares. But it's so easy to hear you humming somewhere behind, where we last held it steady, as if the stakes couldn't have been higher. I can never quite put my finger on the exact tune.
From up here it looks perfect. I suppose the trick would be to fly.
Watch me.


la memoria es un arrecife

piedra recubierta de vida, de fuego, de mar
son los restos solidificados de lo acontecido
entre estertores de miedo y emoción, un clímax
solapado y traslapado entre la roca endurecida
de los remordimientos y la abundancia de los quizás

olas que murmuran todos los nombres y sus dos apellidos
el constante embate de un líquido agrio ya a estas alturas
pero que en su momento fue néctar, sustento, una suerte
de maná escurridizo - el fantasma detrás del espejo sonríe
y detiene a tu madre, las palabras de tu padre hechas trizas
marullo que regresa una y otra vez para acumularse a tus pies

si el pasado es otra isla más en este archipiélago que zozobra
podríamos volver a zambullirnos en todas las veces que no
encontramos como coincidir sin reincidir en los dolores
típicos del invierno recurrente que marchita la arena
donde me siento a esperar otra marejada de lo que fuimos


empty rest stops and crowded truck stops

ball bearings grinding inside the casing
stress and fatigue take their toll
nothing new here
we try to level with each other, but
eye to eye is not something you do
as for myself, fear's my specialty

when the back wheel locks up
i drop the bike, i remember that corner
of my bed, my new bed without your form
for all its complexity, there's no doubt
the problem will be found to be nothing but

behind us now, mixed in with our mutual
propensity for dreaming out of bounds
my wallowing in disbelief, your dismissal
of the way i've meandered back nowhere
safe nor good, quite a waste, in fact

because i am the reason for your misery
because i am what you are avoiding to become
because with tears in your eyes you lied to me

all over again and again over their names
their reasons for sharing your bed
the spontaneity inside the boyz room
not as long ago as i expected it to be

perhaps i will be going nowhere tonight
but tomorrow promises to rid me
of the toxic wanting more of the same


all the images i have left of you don't even make a whole handful

breaks before another evening wear
sees no street, no outdoors, no rain on a friday
night falls apart like so many times before

i finally realize there's no glitter
no sequins, no formal attire for tonight's act
which is a monologue, an interior discourse
no one will so much as register once
let alone multiple times

there's nobody but me left alone
when leaving's the thing to do now
between words, between repetitions
of all the things you only dared to say
after i was gone at last: "i don't wanna
end up like you!" with tears like shattered glass
for emphasis, for all the times that it felt real


every single day
that goes by with minimum effort
and maximum results, like scratching
your name on my skin like a tag
turned inside out for all to see that

it is just me and the weight of winters
passing over what we could become
if only today, of all days, we settle
for a true story of how we traded keys
shelter from bedbugs, from the lying
down to the very last phone conversation
going straight to voicemail

you decided to leave a message, a song
the one i sang for you again and again
the words scattered quickly, like a treeful
of ghost birds flying off into the pixelated
skies all at once at the slamming of a door
the opening of eyes, the stark realization that
there's a strong sense of salt exploding
with every wave breaking and quenching
the thirst of youth, the shocking truth of our
different numbers, the years that went by
from my birth to your summer birthday

i don't think i told you i lost all the photos
of the past two years -- our years, your bed
-- they are all gone, like memories from
a very long time ago, when there were no real
ways to recall the gender of the twins that
would never be but that i still tried to become
with you, through all the yesterdays worth
keeping for future reference, when the day comes
and all my stories are finally finished, done
save for the ones we could've told
opted not to
for fear is my artform

it wouldn't hurt if it was just the photos
if it had just been you, and not everyone else

all the relatives, sisters, neighbors, classmates
suburbanites, visitors, passersby, onlookers
colleagues, coworkers, fellow scribblers
storytellers, weavers, and dreamers
characters from la banda, la raza
el corillo, the crew, the gang, and the entire cast
including the chance encounters
the not-so-coincidental-acquaintances
friends, yes, friends, extended family
bystanders and witnesses called forth

in spite of me
or because of something i said
i did, i wrote, i yelled
or screamed
to forget

you will lie
with him
and i will
once again
to stay in

i want to make the most out of the three weeks left in my lease


improvisación en torno a la pluralidad del apoyo involuntario

Quisimos voltear el mundo;
que quede claro no lo queremos cambiar
nos encanta tal cual
El tema es uno de perspectiva
cosas de gradaciones, contrastes
compulsiones, matices de la percepción
Los síntomas del silencio nunca
se manifiestan de inmediato --
en cambio, la vergüenza no da tregua
es absoluta y despiadada --
sin cuartel ni respiro
Con el tiempo ya ni los colores
son los mismos. Los vínculos
filiales fomentaron, si no todas,
el monto de las transgresiones
que quedaron en evidencia

Sabemos a ciencia cierta
que sobrevivir es la peor condena

No son pocas las veces que fantaseamos
sucumbimos a la exquisita ilusión
de burlarlo todo, sin pausa ni reposo
con tal de arribar más allá de la supervivencia

Repito no queremos cambiar
el mundo sólo voltearlo nomás
Con partirlo en trocitos suculentos
nos basta y nos sobra, sospechamos
sí, anticipamos por fin una tábula rasa
mucho más productiva que la esperanza


breakfast in west memphis, arkansas

some microwaved soup and chocolate milk
an ill-suited plastic spoon, not much of a belly
dreams of third coast conquests
and downriver runs into each other

there's a special quality to the air on the road
and an even weirder sense of loss within the constant hum
in lot lizard country, the safety of trees is scant, if at all
that feeling of lonesomeness seeps into every pore

the road is a lonely companion, without much talk
it sits quietly by your side, judging and mocking
i really only wish to show you the things i've seen,
if only momentarily; a quiet coyote patiently
waiting for a lull in traffic; clouds parting swiftly
stars poking their curious, faint light, dancing
in the distance, the same distance between me and the world
the moon, the sun, and the galactic cannibals that abound

i want to tell you about the 80 dreams I lost on the east side
of kansas city, to a man named Paper, or how that crusty hippie
crushed whatever desires i still had midthrough memphis,
and how Floyd, fortunately, pulled up next to me and secured
my load, and how i saw his truck in the oasis of the plains,
tucked in between so many others, noisily idling and coughing fumes

so many wants turned into so many other things to crave
unable to settle for the slow going, with the white Tesla
zipping by, followed by a Porsche, black of course, and with
Hawaii plates... what are the chances of that?

of a murmur of starlings soaring aloft like all the desires
i laid at your feet in offering, before leaving once again
how they soar in unison, much like the voices in my life
quietly morphing into all the names i've been called
all the little affectations of that awkward longing

you must think it's no big deal, to dream a house
a wraparound chain of commitments that end up
in a plastic bowl of microwaved soup
an ill-suited plastic spoon, cheap formica
and a sideways look from the attendant

some absences are heavier than others
even if they fill the very air you breathe
out on the road, breakfast is not limited to food


one last one

one is sleeping somewhere else
another one is walking,
and one is at home inside my mind

inside in as many nights as it was possible
without the benefit of a doubtless falling
squarely within the framework of a trance
there was a particular moment, a point worth
making in between your days off, your sheets
your way of letting me know this is something
of a beautiful mistake, an unforeseen overexposure
the type of mistake you hold onto just because

one is sleeping in my mind
another one is home
and one is walking somewhere else

three time's the charm, though no one
seems to be counting, some one is keeping
track of all the missed opportunities
afforded by chance and circumstance
only to realize there's no such luck
once you let it sink to the bottom

one is home sleeping
another one walks out of my mind
and one is left somewhere else



it's 9 o'clock and the room is filled
w/ stiff air, typical of a roomful of strangers
for the most part
eyes are tossed this way and that
in every direction, never lingering anywhere long enough
to disarm that peripheral edginess on our faces

better this way, this is an important meeting
these people are here seeking relevance, reason
a stage. we will share our fears soon enough
quell that insidious thirst for community, however
fleeting -- we're actors, we aim to live truthfully
in the imaginary landscape of our choosing

(this has all happened before, as it will most likely
happen again -- minds meeting, intellects toying
w/ each other, bodies touching, barely...)

and then
     yeah, you and your freckles
     enough of them to raise the bar and lift a wall
     into which i slam w/ all the speed of a lifetime
     spent in the vacuum of their absence

     as if you were made of a myriad dotted "I"'s
     but forgot the stems back home when you left
     or is it shafts? or trunks? or whatever
     it is obvious the dots are what's important
     irreplaceable, because each one is as unique
     as a snowflake, as if it were always glorious
     winter all over you and you're covered in

     so many of them yet not quite enough
     like all those points of interest on the map
     of your life -- one for each time your heart
     skipped a beat, or fluttered over someone

     in pairs, in threes, and quadrupled
     like a hundred thousand protesters against
     emptiness viewed from far above, forming
     small groups and crowding like rioters celebrating
     your skin, their world, my road, my
     neverending road into what is you

     one for every time i failed to see you, for
      all these days i never knew of you, of this
      wondrous universe of freckles in every shape,
      form & color... well okay, maybe not color,
      but you know what i mean

     in every nook and cranny of you, just as
     there were - at least one - on every friend
     that's OD'd, every lover that's squeezed a little
     too tight, everyone that has pushed, pulled, and
     whacked me in the direction i'm going

     because there are so many that we could
     build pyramids w/ them, monuments to our
     longing that will draw all like minded freckles
     into our fold to admire and ooooh, aaaaah
     for milenia to come, all the freckles like water-
     melon seeds we can use to build our own
     world in watermelon freckles like my life
     is now done in watermelon freckles of you

And we're only talking of the ones you can see
when you're fully dressed - imagine the possibilities
of those netherfreckles that sustain your mysteries
my yearning, our overlapping freckled futures

Pecas - spanish for freckles
as well as "you sin" in the present tense
pecas de corazón, pecas de medianoche, pecas de mujer
you sweet, sweet sin tracing a cartography of impossible
ways out of me and into you

it is one minute past 9 and your freckles have
rendered this oh so serious meeting pointless
useless, irrelevant in the grand scheme of things

your freckles are here
everything else is just parking

because there is nothing i wouldn't do
for just one of your freckles, now
i finally understand how a woman's body
w/out freckles is like the nightsky w/out stars


de rotas

lo mejor, de entrada, es ver todo lo malo
aunque también
por aquello de que en guerra avisada, 
cualquier trinchera
basta en el campo de batalla o del amor
let me tell you about my broken days, 
let me tell you about my breaking daze
perchance an idea, una noche, una nube
asuma, tal vez, 
su forma concreta once and for all
at last, avoiding
the usual half-assed, half-baked fate, 
the nowhere-fast-enough paja mental
best case scenario
los días tripping over each other
la implacable monotonía
la vida siempre en otra parte, 

the grass is always greener
mientras la desidia se hace rutina,
el destino como desatino habitual
barren days 
very much like los años barridos 
debajo de la alfombra
yea, broken, 
broke ass
you know what they do in japan 
with broken china?
they use gold, 
yeah, i know you know, 
i know you, i'd bet
because it sure seems like you know me, 
me conoces de verdad.

la amenaza de los buenos tiempos, 
la incredulidad rampante
mares no, océanos of doubt, heavy, oppressive doubting, constante
sonante, la misma cantaleta freudiana, nacional, emocional -
pues sí, porque ni carro tengo, 
the walk is all i got
roto, broken, o sino como cualquier roto, 
las famosas trincheras
desta guerra sin cuartel, sin descanso, singular y plural at the same time
yeah, talk about broken

hablando de rotos

la palabra que está ausente de manera inexplicable le sirve de título


welcome to  my life

the event is your reality
truly broken



the art of hugging

And then someone sends an awkward text,
the device rattles and vibrates. These are perilous times
astrologically speaking, a mercurial retrograde is enough
to provoke a reluctant response
quietly past midnight. This i know,
because i was there in spirit to disappoint them all once again.
It's really okay, she said, there will be some left over
for tomorrow. It was my turn to walk away
and show off what a driven walker I've become.

There is more than enough time
for the guesswork needed to unravel the night.
As the snow drifts in and out of focus another one
asks how long we've been waiting. Public transportation
is the perfect metaphor for inspiration. There's never
the right color ink to comment
on the margins, to underline the needs
and wants of everyone involved. Might
as well dog-ear the pages we'll return
to later. Believe me, I've done this before. We are
all heading in the same direction.

We then discuss earnestly the geography
between us when we realize we've missed
a lot more than deadlines. He is welcoming
and gone, but manages to explain it all
really clearly. Make no mistake
about it, the map is inaccurate.
The photograph is lost, tucked away
between a stranger's pages. Forget the rage
contained between buildings, the colors
are off anyways, the memory overexposed.
Feeling your breath on my neck, after all,
will seem like the most natural thing in the world.



La entrada de Inopia es también su salida, pero no quiere decir que solo haya una. Como toda ciudad murada madura, tiene más de una, medio puñado para ser exactos. Son todas las que necesita Inopia, ciudad de dudas, criadero de sueños errantes, depósito de tal veces. Lo que pudo haber sido va a morir a la in(al)can(z)sable Inopia, donde se cruzan los senderos incompletos. Cuentan que si retomas uno de los senderos incompletos, terminas fuera de la ciudad y encuentras sólo la salida. Con la entrada perdida, no se puede más que seguir. Eso no quiere decir que las probabilidades de caminos y complicidades consecuentes obsesionen al viajero. Aún los que nunca han estado en Inopia expresan cierta nostalgia por la sombra de sus caletas y callejones sin salida. No es difícil pasar muy cerca de la ciudad sin dar con ella. Se puede estar tan cerca como para escuchar su bullicio y soñarla perfectamente, pero sin pisar su suelo. Más allá del saludo, el viajero llega Asabiendas sin nunca haberse adentrado de verdad en Inopia.



este lecho zozobra

a veces esta cama es una isla remota
un escollo apenas visible por entre
la marea de algodón y plumas de ganso

todavía conserva las marcas de otra presencia
otro cuerpo que zozobra entre las almohadas
en el preciso instante en que nos separaron
los resentimientos a flor de anoche

cada vez que amanece juro
por lo más profano
que no guardo nada de ti

solo el triste naufragio
de lo que no te atreviste a decir


a short story about the end of his story

Things are different now. Everything is, really, when it comes down to it. They are behind all these changes. Not in any perceptible nor quantifiable way, no, it is all much more subtle. Memories were the first telltale signs; Deyvid and I no longer shared many of our lifelong memories, after all, we'd known each other our entire lives. Certain childhood transgressions became debatable, questionable even, in his opinion. Apparently, he hadn't participated in the many voyeuristic expeditions that marked the onset of our teenage years. They had revolved around three particular houses; the homes of the two best looking girls on our street and that of the retired armed forces bigshot, always dark and full of boxes crammed with government documents. Apparently I had done so on my own, even though I have the distinct recollection of Deyvid pointing out the crazy veteran's house, one street over. I'd always preferred creeping around the girls' abodes.

If it had all been about misplaced memories, perhaps I'd have never thought twice about any of it. But then the disappearances begun. At first, they were explained away with the typical crap: so and so joined the Navy, the weird family behind Deyvid's house relocated stateside, a series of unfortunate car crashes had culled most family members five houses down, and so forth. After that, the mosquitoes took most of the blame; dengue and a handful of exotic tropical diseases spread throughout the island, causing amnesia and altering people's behaviors. The papers rarely delve into any of it, favoring instead the usual police blotter and violent ghetto stories. I seemed to be the only one noticing the steady decline in population, but as soon as I brought it up in conversation, even my closest friends like Deyvid made fun of my 'paranoid' delusions.

Then the acne onslaught. All around me, including Deyvid, whose darker complexion had seemed to spare him the worst in years past. I was alone at home one night - folks were at someone's wedding or something - and this big old blackhead was really itching and making me miserable. Deyvid was supposed to stop by to pick me up to go to his friend's evening pool party. There weren't that many pools in the neighborhood and everybody was expected to attend. So I did the only thing I could do, I tried to pop it.

I guess trying is the wrong word, since I was successful. It was much easier than I expected and once I had the blackhead on the tip of my finger, the itching completely stopped. Then it started moving, the blackhead. Obviously I was dumbfounded, frozen right where I stood in shock. It seemed groggy or something, at first, because it then spread its unbelievably tiny wings and took off. It flew like a hummingbird, hovering and executing precise movements. It hovered for a second before my eyes - was it clocking me?

And then there were two. Then three. All of them clocking me?!? I could feel how they were trying to tell me something. But maybe it was not me they meant to communicate with. Another spot on my face began to itch. And one on my arm too, which looked like a mosquito bite.

It's not the first time it happens, I'm sure, though I have no real recollection of it happening before. I just know it. I'm tired of finding myself staring into the mirror and forgetting what I was doing right before.

That's why I've begun writing about it. This time, though, I'm not losing the notebook.



sounds like a nombre, quizás por eso
es que i followed your lead
es un gut reaction - un reflex
a better way to succumb sin pensarlo
and again, la cuestión del pozo
(entre los pájaros y la flecha)
we drink local
porque no hay otra
y lo más seguro es Yess


Stahl Ihr Gesicht ()steel your face()

it was during fall, of course
amidst the swirling colors
of days toppling one over the other
the connecting blocks of the most
logical of puzzles like arms
around each other held firmly

not too tight, plenty
of breathing room
plenty of your friends
because plenty
was your ongoing supply

can you see yourself
in my words or detect
your smell in my yarns?

the realization you are gone
does little to remove you from
what little is left of this
music library with all your songs

somehow it doesn't surprise me
how soft your steel smile became

i hum and scream and wonder why
we never told each other
the real story of our shared fall

again the colors swirl
and whisper and trace
the fault lines of the bed
that exploded between us

i had no idea you'd leave
me shipwrecked and smiling


memories of these appearances


there is an incredibly strong desire to hope for one
for one would be convenient in the way a name is
yet, more often than not, the name's the first thing to go
or the last to actually matter, and, or perhaps though
definitely but, in some cases, simply a magnificent lie

sometimes it wasn't even memorable, the name

never said or uttered because there was really no need
not even my own, since i was sometimes not even asked
and when i think about it, those were the most intense
secluded moments of all, when our voices finally failed

those times that had nothing to do with words

let alone a name, an unexpected mistake in pronunciation
an odd way of remembering the way your body looked under
the sheets, a thought from elsewhere, a single note heard clearly
but nowhere near the force of impact, of our mutual accident

because sooner or later they all disappeared
without numbers, of course, without even the slightest strip
of paper with letters, numbers, dashes, and flourishes
tucked away in a drawer, a coin pocket, a hidden sleeve


- the first one was twice my age, at least
a foreign accent to boot, but the same tongue
warm as every afternoon on the island
with a handful of witnesses, unwanted
unavoidable and dirty, like the sheets
like i always can't help but remember it

-then there were many names behind her
names like kisses in a darkened playground
but she was pale like a bloated moon
obscured by clouds, younger yet more experienced
always waiting for me in the housekeeper's
quarters by the pool, eyes the color of empty
bottles--it was she who taught me
the language of skin and how to wake up
without letting the dream dry completely out

-an ocean later, i found one of three at the far side
of a city map, but the city was neither hers
nor mine; still, it belonged to us for days on end.
we wrote each other letters back then and it blew us
away to find out we in fact corresponded seamlessly
but again, geography proved too overwhelming

-distance would define her, as in an entire world
between her eyes, her ears, her arms, her legs
the landscape was a table that felt like a stove
where she altered my shape with her hands
and asked me “where to?” with the crack of dawn
i was working as a bus boy at the time
and although she was a regular, never saw her again

-behind the counter though, i dreamed and coveted
her eyes devouring pages and pages and her body
hiding under long skirts like drapes drawn over windows
many years later and, again, as many letters written
i found her in california, i saw her in the flesh
but by then it was much too late for anything more
after all that trouble, a simple hug would just have to do

-it was more a house than anything else
afloat in a sea of rocks, pines, winding roads
with many doors, many places to hide
and they all have different names, different
stories about so many different places they’d been
each one more time for memory’s sake, a form of truce
they all cracked their doors and a couple came out to see me go

-alleyways and clearings in the woods, an occasional
trailer without heat, an abandoned bus among the firs
an impulse to fall together and see how far we’d made it
many years apart, yet periodical relapses into wanting
realizing this is where we will be for the time being
everything reduced to a brief phone call in the night
and the same ending repeating itself all over again, and again


years like wild animals rushing through the woods
a coast unlike any other, something amiss with the air
long blonde hair falling like so many tears of joy
of not knowing when, if ever, it will all unfold once more
within the indoor twilight of a desperate eve, some
ready to go, others, like myself, finally comfortable
in that soft corner between your neck and shoulder
needing nothing more than to see this night through


the wisdom and the crumble

your leadership qualities will shine soon
and there's a candle burning
because there's no power

only fire

and all the bullshit
crumbling elegantly
around a handful of humans

nanobes, neurons
and the big bang in her eyes
were all part of the conversation

but the songs

crackled, hissed
and boomed through the living
room full of traveling, grace



Las palabras llegaron al tercer día
el roce desde mucho antes --
quiero que sepas a quenepa
a manzana, a árbol de navidad.

Pero cuando el sol se esconda,
como suele suceder
y no pare de llover, entonces
es hora de volver
de sentarse
de prevenir que se moje
la madera; el fuego es obligatorio

el fuego no cede
sino crepita

luego, Emilia.
así, con punto final,
porque por más fuego
que tuvieran sus ojos,
el momento de la quemadura
fue fugaz
como suelen ser los fuegos
en los putos cielos

lo peor de todo
es que no me dejó ir,
no me soltó. su voz
compuso el hechizo
del no poder moverme
del no poder zafarme


tal es la dicha del viajero
del caminante
del que simplemente pasa por ahí
y se tropieza con una ilusión primitiva
de un pretérito imperfecto
cautivo por la frescura
de un semblante claro
sereno y final

hoy no podemos entretener al tedio
de la soledad, hoy ya es tarde
para volver a empezar.
el comienzo quedó diluido
por el constante movimiento

si tan solo hubiese una pared
una muralla
un final
un lugar en el cual restrallarme
y descansar sobre el color de sus ojos


i wanted to write you a letter

 it always takes me some time to make up my mind, especially when it comes to language: Español or English? and then, the mind does not end made up, it just happens, seemingly out of my control, like so many other choices that aren't revealed as choices until much, much later

when it is okay to pause, roll another one - these days it's just not feasible to buy them all rolled up and ready to go - and think about the last time i read some of your words, or that other moment, jam packed with Drama and fabulousity, or so you claimed, while wishing me far, far away

back to that moment when it all went south, as if it was ever going any other way at all; the west may sound better and rhyme, but the south is where it all comes to a head and the mess is always better. there were times when i thought it would have to make sense - the motion, the passing, the ongoings going on

the one that got away back for more, the perils of online night visitations, to google or not to google, there must be a video of it somewhere... perchance the darkest web, where i know not how to tread, much like your constant screams and fists raised up to the stars, the moon, the big black nothingness

that always seemed to arrive just in time to soften the edges and hide the ugliness at arm's length away, on a night table, a round table, a periodic table of failed forays into matter, bodies i just can't remember in an empty, darkened house, pinky toes in for the pain

and when it finally dawns on me and i find myself staring out the window, confused by what i always expected to see out there, i know the memory resurfaces now for a reason that i will never be able to pinpoint with any degree of accuracy, let alone find your name where it was written so long ago.



cierro los ojos y empujo el sueño hasta lo más hondo
que conozco de ti, de tu rebelde insistencia
gimes, pero no eres tú, es mi mente
es mi carencia embistiendo contra el alba
con el despertar de tus pechos - néctar de sueño
nata de anhelo - aquí, donde tu molicie
es primero puerta y luego ventana
escenario para una defenestración eufórica


before and after Chi


the oyster was in your hand, the tickets in mine, the wind blew sideways – trying to tell us something? steaming coffee and the desire to go, go, go, the grand ol’ cliché, burning out like something out of the sky, the same sky that turns overcast or becomes a whiteout, depending on where you stand, but always above like some sloppy foreshadowing before we get down to business.

after a while, there weren’t many more left. mostly those who had nowhere to go, really, except for maybe an all-night diner, a bridge somewhere crossing over to elsewhere, leading up to that high lookout point, where it all looks perfect, like it always does from far away in that quiet stillness before it all rushes down into your center. a center you had no idea pulsated at night when you slept and gave out when the sun finally came up.

there were others, of course, as there always are, out and about. the smokers, the shooters, the sniffers, the swiggers, the lookers, the undecided, the puppies that follow you everywhere… they are all there when you wake up, with things sticking out from where they shouldn’t, from where they were supposed to remain hidden, out of sight. next thing you know gravity has been lording over us all for some time now, pulling us down, further down, where we never know what we’ll run into. It doesn’t matter how low we go, there always seems to be lower still to go. but naturally, at that point, the crowd has thinned out completely. then it’s only you, looking up at nothing you can actually grasp or understand. and that’s when you realize you’ve run out of cigarettes.


everything has a certain crisp to its edges, a brightness that must come from somewhere. after so many dreams, so many visions, and so many dives into our own ocean of unfathomable depths, well, there’s a light, isn’t it there? all bright and shit, as if morning took everyone by surprise. the beer’s too warm, the coffee’s cold – not nice, like iced coffee, more like tap coffee – and we are all sticky from whatever took place the night before; either no one remembers or they just rather not talk about it.

but there’s no need to look back, it’s always better to walk with your back to the sun. and a walker is what I’ve become, after so many sleepless roads, so many ruffled wants, and after so many times caught under your rain, the wind of your movements – your being plural, your being the night atop a glass tower in Chicago, resting against the cold glass overlooking everything but us, your being that horrible taxi becoming smaller and smaller, your being your middle finger, slowly unfolded in front of that devastating smile, your being that sunset, or this sunrise, or those shooting stars blazing unanimously in our night, your being all those porches, balconies, fire escapes, strange artists’ loft, wide open rooftops, the missing salt from our common coast…

so I traded your memories for this endless tripping over each other, failed pleasantries, and unexpected blackouts. it is not us who age, it’s our livers. and no matter where you end up, there’s always a hungry cat sitting by the food bowl, clocking you like a spurned lover before slamming the door. isn’t it odd how that cat can stare right through to you and sniff around in your deepest, darkest memory? so I’ve traded those neverending city treks for the scant solace of my own basement, my own hole in the ground. there are occasional transgressions, I admit, but nothing like you all saw back on that other land, the one behind, the one that defies the myth of the eternal return. there’s no real sense now of finding any of it out, only intuition of what it would be like.

and wouldn’t we all want to know what it’s like


Olivia y las demás

Olivia pours the coffee, steams our patience, mixes our expectations and provides us with the operative metaphor; there is much to consider in the empty cup, the frothy hotness, the out of our hands, tepid outcome. Olivia is not the slick image that pours from our thoughts, nor the star burning up over our heads.

She is simply the roommate, the one who locks and shuts off the lights before leaving. She will be here almost every day this week, because she is a working roommate, an independent roommate, a special kind of roommate.

And that’s just Olivia. There’re others, each with with their own swing, their own beat, their own escape route. There were days when we would cross, or bump, or perhaps it was a bit more than a bump, a la Allison, circa Manhattan 1994, under the Roosevelt Island cable car and an overcast sense of nowhere, fast. Her words, my mistakes, a confabulation with no respite. Disease ensued, planes took off, memories crashed and had to be rebooted, a new sense of nowhere arose. And her name is unknown. Forever Lost. Like a smile, fleeting between stations.

I called her Vera, but that was never her real name.

The many Emilies have also made somewhat of an appearance towards the end. On the sidelines, as observers, as witnesses, really, for then things got a little tense, then later huge, out of proportions, oppressive even. Things. Lost and safe, around your neck or your fingers, in your pockets. Broken pieces of it in every corner you happen to look in.

Several Annas showed up even later than that, which was never really the end, and shared their vowels with many other latecomers, a occasional “L,” not capitalized liked you’d think, but lower case, almost a one.

The oldest reduction, the final relief. One. Here. Now.

Nowhere all over again. Postings and faraway musings interfere, but ultimately will only add color, if that. You will not engage the same erroneous ways, there are always new ones, without a net, out there, where there are no warrantees. Only corners, to cut, to make your own, to get to know yourself. To lay the groundwork for what will come much later, when the names matter not so much.

Some will remain, like H. Both of them, the real and the one inside, running through my veins. But the one that actually matters lies elsewhere, as much of life does, giving off signs of life without much continuity. An afterthought, one that will permeate, hopefully even mutate whatever is left into something new.

To be oneself again.


one-night-run (but it really took years)

there was the time I got lost in another country and three whatifs crashed into me as that awful car sped away.

i caught the first whiff of your signature scent
somewhere outside cleveland after dusk
there was a certain twang to your essence
not unlike a tense guitar string screaming
quietly with finger picking precision back
in the lounge car with the other passengers

one window looks out into our ignorance
a rooftop is always in play,

the Thunder Carrot, the Pixie, the Triplets
of Railville come alive past midnight
there is no singing this time around
but there are spirits lifted, raised
like a glass of wine, a shot of vodka,
a splash of that cheap whiskey
while we all drink to the next stop

there was another time when I was riding in the back of a VW bus while the couple who owned it argued up front. that was somewhere in the eastern seaboard, south of DC if my memory serves me right.

which it usually doesn't,

like the time when your hard edges caught the small of my knee as i rounded the corner trying to find my way out of another senseless night, out of another bed, out of this clever combination of evasion and want. tell me, are we really this stuck up in our own fears that we cannot abide to accept? i sometimes drown in your ocean and it is the most beautiful, but lonely death i can imagine.

a bruise for every time she smiles at you from across the way
or how she will never leave a mark, a scar, something written
on the skin only meant for that awkward moment
between the two, and the three, and all the others waiting in the shade, in the alley
at the bus stop the following morning, cuando la luz se te cruza en el camino

alright, i'll wait for the time to expire and reset all the weird ways in which you decide to unknow me all over again, apply pause, that tiny, breathless moment when i open my eyes and find myself sinking in you, hiding within your doubts, and holding on to your mistakes as if they were my own,.

i'll meet your bluest eye
with my whitest lie
and raise you the blackest night

not quite beyond the pale
they said,
why do they bow to the reddest moon
you wondered

is this your yellow trick road?
i shoulda known the grass is always greener

by then it all comes together and becomes one more lesson to ponder in bed while the cat scratches at the door. i can never tell if he's trying to get in or out, and then it dawns on me the cat is not really a cat.

and then finally, there was the time nobody knew how to start all over again. and we all did what we thought we were expected to, drink a little more, stare across the bay, the harbor, or whatever body of water keeps us apart, and wonder if we left right now we might just be able to make the last train back to …nowhere.

it will all end soon enough, maybe even
after we’ve become the ruins of what we're looking for;
a dangling body, a swinging sentence,
 a quiet moment between the cars
where solitude is the undisputed king
of games not finished before our ultimate destination.

so this is how you describe that hollowness
so this is the best i can do
so this how my road unravels in your back country



her exact words were irrelevant, the power lied in the pauses, the tentative way in which she half-smiled, awaiting an answer. the handful of instants melted in my hand, my words were predictable, the whole thing was predictable, the immensity of my want unbearable.

how do you look at your own weakness in the eye and turn it into something else, anything else; there will be others; there will be no end to that tautness that holds your entire body hostage, that will make sure memory betrays what little you'll be able to hold on to when it is all over and you are on your way to that place that looks like home, but will never even get close to that calmness that washes over you in her presence, regardless of the actual distance; you will remember it, and it will haunt you in such a way so as to spend whatever it is that you need to provide her for a reason to answer again.

¿cuántas veces ensayaste el momento?
¿cómo es posible que no lo puedas evitar?
¿con cuál de todos tus sueños lograrás la ablación de rigor?

facing a dream is not unlike facing an abyss, perhaps the real difference being a certain willingness to jump. regardless. because you know that whatever may lie down there, it is accompanied by relief, true relief. and hopefully that other world you've always suspected existed somewhere else. in the end, you make peace with the fact that you are willing to do anything, anything for another chance.

how could you not?



A dream walks up to you, but when the words come out, they are in a different language;
supongo que así creamos a los monstruos, lo mejor es que sigas bebiendo -- la verdad es que sólo lo hago porque siento un inmenso vacío en lo más adentro, pero confieso que me sentí muy bien lastimando a otro, a otra, a cualquiera menos a mí otra vez

And everything is over before you realize the implications of all that transpires that makes you laugh -- ouch, dices y te acuestas, acomodando tu cabeza - tu condena - sobre el pecho de una vida que no sabes cómo terminará, aunque estás seguro de que todo se vendrá encima como una avalancha de torpezas y tropiezos en la oscuridad, en la pista de baile, en la barra con una botella, dos botellas, tres botellas, mil botellas de cerveza. escuchas que dice, entre dientes, que bebe para no sentir, para no sentirse como un ser humano, un ser sensible que canta y baila y sigue viviendo a pesar de todos los golpes, todos los malentendidos, todos los moretones

a bruise for every time she smiles at you from across the way
another night that will never end for the way it all sways at four in the morning
a mark, a scar, something written on the skin only meant for that awkward moment
between the two, and the three, and all the others waiting in the shade, in the alley
at the bus stop the following morning, cuando la luz se te cruza en el camino


ayzi deys

como una reunión espontánea con repercusiones
los minutos, las horas, el brochazo gélido
la ilusión
rumiamos las decisiones sin parar
los dolores, los golpes, las lesiones, los aullidos
sacude y despierta, la posibilidad es despiadada
temes el jamás, la probabilidad de que te lo pierdas



a name, a shield
          una ella, única, el último recurso
para detener el final de tu mundo
          un nombre, un escudo
all the things I didn't get a chance to say


la maldición del reloj

para entender la tiranía del reloj, primero hay que repasar el contexto de su latifundio; el matre es una balsa que flota en el mar de una alfombra asquerosa, al derredor los restos de una malavida componen un archipiélago de bultos y cajas llenas de recuerdos y disparates, y por último el gato merodea como una tintorera - cada uno de sus dientes representa una decisión desacertada;

la mano larga es un remo inútil,
         la corta, una navaja roma, tu cuchilla suiza
                    los números consienten el remolino que todo lo traga

llueve a las 4:21 y lamentas el minuto desapercibido
a las 5 y pico olvidas el dolor y te incorporas
el sueño ya no existe y te rindes, imposible recobrarlo

cuando vienes a ver, ya lo que queda de la lluvia es el ruido de las goteras y un rumor de hojas caídas al otro lado de la entrada, el olor a café es unánime pero inconsecuente, un desayuno ahora es lo más absurdo que se te ocurre y optas por el hipnótico ronroneo que imaginas emana del corazón del ordenador, pero que en realidad surje de lo más íntimo del felino adormecido al pie del escritorio

hoy es mañana, mañana es otra paja mental y ayer siempre vence sobre el optimismo idiótico que le asignas al futuro imperfecto; las manos se cruzan, los segundos se tropiezan unos con otros y los minutos son el murmullo interminable de todo lo que te elude porque no estabas prestando atención cuando dieron las instrucciones, las horas - sospechas - son los átomos de un universo finito y los días son las moléculas de tantas veces que confundiste la intención con la reacción. la repetición es una condena y los meses son las barras que te encierran.

entonces la estructura pierde su forma coherente
         masa y materia son decisiones hechas por mayoría de votos
                  la energía es el espíritu de la letra, el lenguaje,
                            una manera de medirlo todo sin compromiso

para entender cómo es que se acaba todo, primero tienes que saldar la cuenta - maldita sea, no hay ventanas en el baño y aunque hay dos entradas, o salidas, no hay escapatoria. una vez más te ves obligado a dejarlo todo sobre la mesa. al fin y al cabo llegas a un entendimiento que te ilumina como un relámpago: cada vez que pensabas que estabas comenzando de nuevo desde cero, en realidad estabas continuando desde cero. el trueno lo aclara todo: el fin no es más que otra ilusión.


lo que escuchamos cuando no queremos ver la razón de lo que tenemos guardado en el cajón de lo que soñamos

un día como cualquier otro

una vez y dos son tres

te enamoraste en todas
las esquinas

sin hablar con nadie
todo el día

adentro no encuentras el gato

en un abrir y cerrar de ojos
es ahora

cuando se te ocurre que esto que falta

se te pierde y se rompe convirtiéndose
en mil

pedacitos de lo que nunca pudiste


un día como cualquier otro


Cuando trato de hablarlo, se me hace way too difficult

quickly, like so many other times
one for every intracraneal color
and two for every shade of remorse
between now and then, between us

riding catatonic on the rails,
preying upon the altar of tongues
porque puedo, porque soy bi-
sujeto a la dialéctica linguística
del vacío cultural que produce
riding catatonic on the rails

entre ahora y después, entrenos
dos por cada tono del remordimiento
o uno por cada color intracraneal
rápido, como tantas otras veces


la pizca del temponauta

luego luego anochece
y merma; lánguida
la nada crece
se expande, dejando
nada más lo que falta
lo que nunca se tuvo

curioso, que la ausencia
llene tantas y tantas páginas

hubieses querido un nombre
algún mango por donde
agarrar esa crasa carencia

(cuando alguien te pregunta
mientes y dices que te duele
hasta te inventas un nombre
y la haces mujer, ficción
cuando es sólo otro vacío)

triste ápice allá
al otro lado
donde no llegan
ni las palabras

regresas, igual
queriéndola más
pero no la sueltas
porque esa ausencia
será la última
ciudad que te queda

(al rato, solo, vuelves
a mentirte, a extrañarla
a buscarle otro nombre
otra razón de no ser
porque lo que más
quieres no es nada
más que eso mismo)

nada, lo que falta
lo que no tengo


el sofanauta

habemos algunos que se nos olvidó tirar cambio
por eso es que todos los colores se promiscuyen
y murmuran sus historias al oído del primero
o el último que pase por ahí desapercibido

a medida que me despojo de las cosas
los libros en el sótano de los sueños
la ropa me persigue como la cola de un cometa
el escritorio le hace compañía a un gato
que no es mío, que está en otro sótano
lejos de la cama y del barrio en un piso tres

habemos algunos que todavía no nos vamos


pa' labrar

sin ti miento
y me siento

a escribir

aspa, vientos,
y dio más
híper zona G

nada, es pera
agua y diente
frutopia, espejo

alabar palas
no ve la
erre ante
eles, paz y/o

sentí, miento
o culto
ala con fusión
pal Abreu

y no pal
que vio
lento lana,
con partida


la relevancia de las ventanas

supe en seguida, a partir de los ejemplos,
amparado en lo preciso del sonido, la contención
de todo lo que le corresponde, en un simple apelativo,
el suyo, que es el nuestro, el de ellos,
y así sucesivamente, y así por el estilo
hasta que recorre el telón

es el mismo principio de una herida superficial,
una lesión sobre la piel
la cual es mejor dejar al descubierto,
dejarla que respire
que se recomponga

la inutilidad de la espera - lo risible del desenlace - es el ancla
que se aferra
que sostiene
la posición y el resultado
es lo que temimos desde un principio


múltiples de Horas: fragmento de Los 4 Libros de la Inmortalidad - nanobios

Eres mucho más que sencillamente una persona, un ser humano, y estas singulares habilidades que has adquirido de la noche a la mañana no son más que las manifestaciones más superficiales de esto. Tal vez en términos humanos eres un individuo, un simple espécimen, pero una vez los nanobios se incorporan de lleno en tu persona, en ese momento te transformas en toda una raza, y digo toda porque eres toda, el primero y el último, el resto, el margen, la prehistoria y el futuro, un mundo completo dentro de ti, de principio a fin; eres el Alfa y el Omega, por lo tanto, dios. Y en efecto, eso fuiste, eres y seguirás siendo para el resto de la humanidad: dios. Eres el misterio incomprensible, la dimensión de lo inasequible, el centro de un universo propio en este multiverso infinitésimo, inmortal. El milagro de la vida y el ineludible espectro de la muerte conviven dentro de ti, defínente de ahora en adelante. Horacio, tal y como lo habíamos concebido, ya no existe; ahora eres Horas, múltiples de Horas.


salí ente volatil

ser un vaso de agua fría en verano
          afuera en el balcón, al mediodía
o esperar dos, cuatro, ocho, dieciseis años
         para salir de la jaula invisible hecha
de un reloj que marca los minutos con los codos

aquel saliente en particular, entre todos los acontecidos
desde ese entonces, aunque sigue aferrado al este
porque es allí donde donde nace, donde brilla, donde llora

ser la mano firme empuñando el mango de la sartén
          que su mamá le dio poco después de la boda
aún cuando resistió esas promesas transoceánicas
          o la voz que resuena en la espalda de esa misma
mujer que te lleva en los brazos de tu primer olvido

nace todos los días para alumbrar otra oportunidad
lo mismo macho que hembra que compartir lo quebrado
siempre redunda y sale lo que en realidad quisimos

ser extranjero, sombra del alienígena sin asombro
         pero con el futuro a flor de brote volcánico
siempre y cuando las epístolas te disparen la vista
         y te perforen las ilusiones sin vergüenzas

donde se debaten las peores intenciones
amanece otra vez


no es nuestra historia si no la escribo

una falda larga de mahón
esconde las intenciones, enmarcan su pasar
una mujer objeta, ser sujeto de otra oración
un tropiezo literario, aburrido,
sujeto a cualquier desenlace

son tres los que andan
tres veces lo mismo, un trayecto abyecto
tanta prisa para perderse, tan sabrosa
la deshora, tan dulce estar solo
luego el día se abre no como una flor
(¿en serio eso esperabas?)
sino como una herida profunda
desangrándose de principios

míos más que nada, ya no me quedan
tantos como a ti. te sorprende
la muerte en mi historia, me falta el arco
la catarsis de un pedestal hecho trizas
ahora que por fin te veo desnuda

estas paredes no retienen nada
este gentío se desprende del relato
nuestra historia es promiscua, una puta
con el corazón de oro de rigor
nadie la termina, aún menos la recuerdan
nos falta el sentido común
el fundamento de la cronología

parece un final, otra herida más
abierta, ventanas, puertas, labios
el maldito retorno de la nostalgia
por algo que no existe fuera
de mi mente, algo que no escribo
para evitar la prisión de las palabras


a la espera del alba

a veces, como quien toca en una puerta desconocida
el æther experiementa la sabrosa chispa
de conexiones al dorso de un disparate inminente

Want you

así, sin nada, con esa doble u enorme
hinchada, como dos rodillas dobladas
al principio dese delicioso precipicio

Of course. es mutuo

la respuesta siempre es deshonesta
y la esperanza es bien puta
capaz de pegarte algo al garete

Entonces, dawn
ese aguantar la respiración colectiva
la verdad brilla

como un sol
el silencio, sideral

la luz molesta los ojos
la mañana te estruja la memoria
en la cara, en la boca seca

el fin de semana se convierte en tu peor enemigo


palíndrome en el espejo

Porque si traduzco el palíndrome en el espejo -- evilolive -- me quedo con una aceituna malvada, una que por no transar las memorias de otra cama, sufre las inclemencias de índole noctámbulas, pero que suelen amenazar con el alba por encima de la música, las cortinas y las puertas cerradas. La llave la llevo al bolsillo de tu entrepierna, pero el cerrojo, ciego al fin, rechaza mis aproximaciones. Lo que yo no puedo llevar a término, el sol lo lleva a cabo. La luna, entristecida, calla. Ella sí sabe cuál es el tema de verdad.

I will not give thanks, for this warm ocean, which is and has done me well, difficult return. Currents creep you, eddies and the horizons you doubt to put. I almost drown, in the third try, after which I decided to freeze him and walk, never had I started knowing that that salting brings itself to bear, and make dificultuos the task. So there it was after much effort and concentration

I accomplished, nada
to the end that has 
fallen enough to create
thin layers, a marine acetate, 
stories recorded by where I can move, 
lost and safe, return. 
"for an imaginary woman"

Delia saw I was ailed

el palíndrome emordnilaple
como un reflejo del nahua
como la lengua que compartimos

gracias alunasa solar