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 

Meorias

...del Diccionario de Fobias Hermenéuticas y Petit Malls

1. f. (col.) U. t. c. p. Denota una repentina avalancha de imágenes de carácter hipnótico que están todas vinculadas a una memoria en particular -- ya sea un momento, un evento, un instante, todo un día, la noche, la medianoche, el alba, el ocaso, el mediodía, en fin, cualquier bloque de memorias relacionadas al mismo episodio memorioso -- pero que suceden en el pensamiento a tal velocidad, que escapan el registro conciente del que padece la condición. A veces está asociado con la famosa y elusiva punta de la lengua; un nombre, un rostro, un muslo. Se puede utilizar para describir el episodio memorioso en sí o el conjunto de imágenes producidas por este.
"Estas meorias de la última noche en San Juan no me dejan dormir en paz!"
En Las Macrónicas del Temponauta, 2013
 

Tar Danzas between More Discos

maldito Tiempo, esputo de mis desaciertos
si pudiera sacrificar la ausencia de una medianoche
entre mujeres sudadas y norteñas despedidas
te arrancaría el corazón para compartirlo
con la niñería que chilla por las mañanas

ay Tiempo, tu sucia amistad es una trampa
de recuerdos que desheredo sin gusto
pero con las ganas que le tengo a ese cuello
como quien aspira al vampirismo cíclico
de tantos errores saboreados en nueva compañía

duérmete Tiempo, que la única salida está
trancada con atrevimientos y lenguetazos
clandestinos bajo esa débil luz que irradias
amparándote en una borrachera artificial
un desenfado ejecutado con alevosía

y la premeditación de un Tiempo hecho trizas
como son todos esos cuentos que me susurras
al oído, ese amor distante, ese ajuste violento
de cuentas que nada tiene que ver con esa dulce
rendición que me brindas entre las piernas

ojalá ya no estés aquí, odioso Tiempo
cuando me despierte y no haya otro modo
de seducir el olvido que llevas en la boca
con la que todo lo curas entre las sábanas
empapadas con el residuo de tu maldito sexo

Nostalgaretismo

...del Diccionario de Fobias Hermenéuticas y Petit Malls

1. m. (col.) Refiéresea esa suerte de "litost" que se ocupa de los asuntos pasados, pero que más temprano que tarde se torna un huracán de emociones leves, débiles casi, pero cuando están todas juntas, son inquebrantables. Por extensión se puede inferir también que se trata de un sentimiento melancólico del recuerdo que se ha ido desbocando poco a poco dentro, muy dentro de uno, llevándose consigo las últimas memorias que nos quedan de aquel amor, aquel disparate, aquel callejón, aquellos muchachos...  2. m. (img.) Una especie de vengamás que sólo nos ataca cuando añoramos y deseamos algo que sin duda nos causaría irreparables estragos en nuestra vida espiritual.

embuste

mentira, pensé que nuestro error
fue cambiar los días por semanas
como si en realidad fuera a tener
alguna diferencia, algún efecto
en el ineludible desembocar
de lo que nunca urdimos a oscuras
mentira, dije apuntándote con el dedo

breve historia de un lugar

los meses se acumulan como un charco
de tiempo, las cosas que no nos dijimos flotan
los besos pasaron como guaguas fuera de servicio
una sonrisa fue el taxi que me dejó en la esquina
de tu barrio de miedos y futuros ajenos a todo
lo que seguramente hubiésemos sido

cronoseptisemia

...del Diccionario de Fobias Hermenéuticas y Petit Malls

1. f. (med.) Refiérese a una infección mortal del lóbulo temporal del cerebro que registra el pasar del tiempo y establece el regimen regenerativo de la población microcelular del cuerpo humano. La cronoseptisemia se manifiesta de variadas maneras y su sintomatología responde proporcionalmente al tipo de temponautismo en el que incursiona el enfermo; sin embargo, la prognosis siempre es la misma: defunción. Ya sea debido al temponautismo supratemporal o al singular, el resultado es la muerte del individuo. Aún cuando el espécimen sobrevive, el monto total de recuerdos y memorias que componen la idiosincracia del individuo, confiriéndole su excepcional identidad, tienen pierde y el organismo pasa a un estado sub-rosa de conciencia. Esto quiere decir que al igual que el paciente con Alzheimer's en su etapa final, aquellos que padecen de cronoseptisemia sufren una unánime impotencia de prevenir la pérdida de identidad y se convierten en una especie de esponja cogniscitiva que absorbe las identidades de los individuos a su alrededor y así permítele a su cerebro a componer una nueva identidad temporera que nada tiene que ver con la original. Esta característica camaleónica del paciente cronoséptico casi imposibilita el diagnóstico acertado y hace del individuo uno parasítico y peligroso para los seres de su comunidad. Las consecuencias son tan numerosas como son variadas; tan distintas y proporcionales a las variaciones fenotípicas de la especie, ya que el paciente cronoséptico puede terminar devorando las memorias de todo individuo a su alrededor. Por estas razones no existe un protocolo para el regimen terapéutico.

nieverrantes

...del Diccionario de Fobias Hermenéuticas y Petit Malls

1. m. (lit.) De uso más bien plural que describe los pequeños grupos transeúntes que suelen aglutinarse a orillas del lago y demás lugares durante y luego de una tormenta de nieve. Una vez constituidos de forma espontánea, estos colectivos se desplazan de modo aleatorio por la ciudad en una especie de trance inducido por la constante caída de copos de nieve. El distinguido investigador Ona Neesmo - en su clásico estudio sobre las diferentes clases de nieve en América - identificó los paralelismos entre los nieverrantes y los mismos copos de nieve; ambos suelen tropezar entre sí para formar copos, y por ende grupos, mayores y más complejos. Una vez los nieverrantes alcanzan una masa crítica vuelven a deshacerse - 'derretirse', si me lo permiten - y se reintegran al fluir peatonal de la ciudad. 2. m. (fig.) En términos coloquiales refiérese al estado anímico entre la nostalgia y la expectativa que suele acompañar las nevadas prolongadas y la cual se manifiesta a través de una disposición a dejar a un lado cualquier responsabilidad para rodar sobre, jugar en y embarrarse de nieve en cuanto nos damos cuenta de que está nevando. 3. adj. Utilícese para describir la repentina necesidad de deambular a través de un paisaje cubierto de nieve; La nieverrante sensación acabó por vencerlo antes del amanecer. (Cervantes, M. -- Las postrimerías de la Triste Figura, 1660, inédito). 4. m. Serie de soliloquios o discursos declamados sin aviso a causa de una repentina nevada, la presencia de un interlocutor es irrelevante.

daguerreologue

I hate to see you like this, forlorn and not quite forgotten
but not quite remembered either, at least for the right reasons
always holding onto those fleshy hands, that dream from long ago
traveling within the confines of your blood, your fire deep in the sky

Dear Érase Una Vez:
We cannot wait any longer. The sound may be far off but will arrive anyway at any moment. We have to press on, we have to push through, we have to get up and burn, burn, burn along with all the people we've lost along the way. There is a place, a moment, an instant, a flash of distinction, a spark of recognition, a sound that shakes the ground beneath the future and an idea that turns our footprints into words, our path into a story, our end into another beginning. We will not rest for we are the wicked of yore come forth to burst through the clouds and rain on your eyes, on your face, on your wants, washing each and every moment of truth into a string that vibrates through the many times we ended thinking about it and decided to do nothing about it.

I hate to see you like this, all backaches and heart tremors, that unstoppable ringing in the new years lined up like the endless mistakes we indulged in when we knew we weren't getting away that easily. Might as well sink into our empty spaces and dedicate our passage to the end of the road and the beginning of the ocean, our vast deep ocean drowning our screams of pleasure and concealing that elusive point where it all comes back to again and again.

too many emilys

A veces pienso que hay demasiadas Emilys en mi vida, que se multiplican ante mi camino como una broma pesada, como una cosquilla inarrascable que revienta a gritar en medio de un gentío. Todo empezó en mi niñez, cuando escuché esa canción del otrora Pink Floyd fue como escuchar una fuerte premonición. Desde entonces se me cruzan las Emilys y se me ruborizan las verdades.

Por momentos la soledad es como esa colita de humo que se le escapa a un cigarrillo aplastado con ahínco. Entonces aprieta el hambre y se safa la ruta del cauce cotidiano.

Un caveat; una culpa por cada vez que se abrieron los horizontes carnales de las ganas que les he tenido y sin duda tendré de nuevo.

Entonces llegaron las demás, las que le siguieron a esa primera canción, y cabe aclarar que cada una de las Emilys que he visto han pasado a ser canciones, la mayoría de pena -- de olvido -- o desgarradoras baladas cortavenas.

La primera era la hermana, que luego se convirtió en la prima y más tarde en la estudiante dos filas más allá, por la ventana. La cuarta me regaló una maldición y la quinta una enfermedad venérea. La sexta avivó las chispas de una desesperación y la séptima fue la última que lloré. Ocho veces me crucé con la blanca y nueve cambios de ropa le vi a la décima.

Por momentos la soledad es una sucesión de nombres que no logro retener y que siempre me roban la siesta obligatoria del ocaso. Entonces las demás me caen encima como chinches.

A veces pienso regresar a ese momento inocente sin deseos de letras ni alfabetos, pero la realidad es una cruel amante que magulla y cicatriza, dándote pasaje en la superficie de la piel hasta el final de la noche.

Si tan sólo la pudiera ver jugar con el porvenir. 

mal de coucou

the first time i ran into you on the street -- or under it, to be accurate -- we were careening towards a better understanding, we shared a couple of knowns in various towns across our peppered past. how many times were you the dreamy brunette and i the sullen gaucho? how many nights did we plunder our transgender bender into the elaborately loud here and now? i am sick of being the arrow that splashes somewhere off target, and i am sick of getting whiffs of your whereabouts outside; whaddaya say we miss that time we were near enough to hear all the innuendos spread like an infectious disease in the walled-in city of our tropical once upon a time? what are we supposed to say when we stumble unto our common bond and discover we were each meaning to cash in our chips?

kenopsia

i've been here in this room a couple of days, but it might as well've been two decades, because i can see how it all goes from here and onto the next settlement to start over once again, oh please no, not all over again. the roots are never the same, no matter how far i go from her whispering beaches, they just don't go deep enough if you're by yourself. such are the things i've seen while i've been living out here on the alley behind Everyday Street, stuck like molasses and reminiscing about your return. the weather girl couldn't have been more wrong, it is a perfect day to imagine the throngs heading to the coast.

an incongruence of traction

and when winter finally arrives, i find myself lost on Midnight Road, slouching towards a certain lack of momentum, a special kind of perceptual loss thrashing not too far off, and curiously enough gaining in traction what it lacks in congruence, a different page for a different turn, cornering the motions as if we were all called here today. there are several ways to leave the corner of Midnight Lane and Moonless Road, but not one of them is accessible from where we stand and watch as it calmly evaporates before our eyes. the laughter caught us by surprise, and later, when it was just us delaying our escape, there was more history between all of us than we'd come to expect, than what we were willing to concede to one another. as usual, a closing concession.

the sound of now

sometimes you can hear them outside, like the names you've heard before, or the way they told you it would be, and sometimes you can feel the dry thud inside the moment you wish you hadn't said that, or that time you couldn't believe your eyes, and then there are other times when it is all around you, the laughter, the engines, the thundering spaces where you find yourself about to start for real this time.

Metuchen, NJ

it started, like countless others, with just a glass
     white wine and the hope for some herbal probability
the directions were simple enough, the locals quite friendly
     her blackness was the most beautiful thing and the white wine was cheap

it wasn't anything like that, though i confess plenty of
     contradictions abound and the story hasn't even begun
the music is incidental, convergence a welcomed side
     effect, a peculiar way of agreeing with no one

but nothing says it better than a Cosmic alignment

as a matter of fact the story ended nineteen years ago
     today in the backseat of a yellow Chimera, i mean
a Camaro with black interiors and room for everybody
     the hospital was not far, she was farther in the city

and then the sun was out and i passed out
     in the backseat with leftover shadows
too many out and about blaring their horns
     and zigzagging through suburban backroads

but the kids were still sleeping, thank fucking god

a false sense of security like a blanket over
     the sleepy main street not too far from here
some words to go with the coffee, the champorrado
     back on 18th street when detective hammer calls

the first of so many calls crisscrossing the lines
     between our chosen places to wait it out
with nothing but a vague notion of how to press on
     for you and me, for the others milling about

but the thing is i really can't say what went down

hers was a charming smile, they usually are
     three of them got to school late, the fourth
was early against all odds, the same odds
     that had me questioning my current direction

the bag was still in my bag, the phone under
     the passenger's seat along with my little
journal containing the failings of many stories
     and the numbers of countless mistakes

but we knew what would happen and we let it

happen to know a guy who knows a guy who-
     you get the picture. it could all go away
the guilt, the second guessing, the sleepless
     silence of a better idea you can't remember

there are nineteen ways we could leave right now
     but i'm afraid there's no way to get it into reverse
so we push on and out onto the street, easing as best
     we can into the morning traffic and back home

but i always leave something dear behind



     

la etapa delta

en el sueño
     tus colores tienen tonalidades obscenas
     pero necesarias al final del día

cuando despierto
     tu color lo tiñe todo de gratos menesteres
     pintando la mañana con el érase una vez

al fondo del pasillo la puerta está entreabierta
la luz que escapa es la aurora boreal de tu centro

en el sueño
     el rojo vivo de lo que quiero está entre tus dedos
     pero te lo robas junto con mi calma y sereno

cuando despierto
     no recuerdo el trino de tu mirada ni la osadía
     de tu viva voz cantando bajo el fuego de la ducha

la justa medida de lo que falta está perdida
dentro de tu bolso las palabras fluyen a granel

en el sueño
     las piedras rompen las olas en un millar de refracciones
     y las nubes nos caen encima como cansancio viejo

cuando despierto
     despuntan las ilusiones más allá del sol
     algo allá arriba durará más que este sol

la oscuridad no miente pero engatusa con gusto
y yo que no sé cómo te retengo entre mis causas

we wish

seems to me that maybe i've never been there
the last time we drank together was somewhere else
altogether a relatively quiet affair, the drinks
the smoky looks, the take-me-away interiors
i decided to see myself wanting nothing but

we were all there before it happened
     we were all gone when the dust blew in
            we were almost out of danger for good

almost

seems like they all speak another language
because i never understand anything anybody says
we all grow weary and start looking for the door
but nobody wants to be the first to stand up
we then decided not to wait any longer

almost

wish we were nowhere near the end
but the sun catches us out back on the sand
the sound of waves crashing lulling us into
each other like the pieces of the puzzle
we were leaving once and for all to see

we could not foresee the many ways
     we were thrown together against everything
           we were trying to avoid telling each other

las tres razones del temponauta

porque enseguida que abro la puerta
entran los malentendidos a la carrera
y al rato, como quien no quiere la cosa,
el deseo rompe vicio y se nos mete adentro

el primer día es el más fácil
     apenas muerde este maldito frío

las próximas veces se suceden sin mayores
inconvenientes, sin cejas alzadas ni calzones al aire
fuiste la primera vez que no lo vi venir
y la última que me tiro de cabeza sin mirar

una semana más tarde la luna deja de hablar
     mañana de seguro nos revolcamos, hoy no

al fin y al cabo caigo en cuenta de que allí
estuviste todas las veces que yo estuve
pensándolo bien, formulando algo mejor
una nueva manera de dormir y soñar

juntos pero no revueltos parpadeaba el letrero
     de la última parada de una orilla como cualquier otra

el llamado del temponauta

siempre

al final del día regreso a donde estábamos
esperando desde un principio
envuelto de humos, negativas y uno que
otro ruido espectacular que anuncia eso

que siempre se escucha a lo lejos
         como los pedazos de eso que fuimos

cuando trato de decirte cómo soy por dentro
lo único que logro es sucumbir a la tentación
de no soltar las ganas que tengo de tu apodo
tus venas, tu figura titiritando debajo del sol

que siempre se escucha a lo lejos
          como el ultimo pedazo que nos quedó

nunca pude alcanzar la velocidad de tus deseos
ni frenar el alocado vuelco de tu entrepierna
tampoco pude subir a lo más alto de tu cerebro
ni siquiera supe resistir esa voz tan tuya

que siempre se escucha a lo lejos
          como el pedazo de cama que nos alojó

siempre

a mí también me cuesta mucho traducirte

mi vida, por supuesto que sí
si no a tí, ¿a quién podría estar
escribiéndole? para que no dudes
ahora me dirijo a ti y tú sabes quién
eres, fuiste, serás, para mí, para todos

imaginaria porque no te tengo aquí
frente a mí sino en el recuerdo
en el pasado plus cuán perfecto!
en la playa esa de nuestras confesiones

todos retenemos algún secreto
el tuyo lo tengo bien guardado
el mío nunca lo he podido compartir
a ver si mañana -- mañana ¿no? --
cuando te vea otra vez, si te acercas
te lo admito nuevamente y me vuelvo
a rendir a orillas de tus elusivas

3:38 AM

la locomotora opera en el mismo plano
que un atrevimiento espontáneo
y el zarandeo de sus insistencias
es esa canción que no puedes sacarte
de la cabeza, ese coro surrepticio

uno a uno discurren a lo largo de la noche
mientras el vagón se estremece entre las estrellas
uno a uno transan con el desprecio de Morfeo

la aurora nos agarra
con las intenciones cruzadas
una mujer oculta su apelativo
y otra cuenta sus errores íntimos

vida muerta con vaca flaca
solo silencio en los bolsillos
el bodegón del vengamás
un anacronismo con énfasis en el onismo
porque ana ya está de camino

al otro lado se montán en un avión
sacan las despedidas a secar
y se intercambian las mentiras
como tarjetas de presentación

terminan de dos en dos
y las otras tres dan las buenas noches
que entran gateando en cuatro

la moral, como siempre, en el quinto sueño

otoño bicicleta

el susurro de las hojas voladoras
y el aliento gélido de sátiro
son sus prefijos ambientales

el rojo se nutre del ocaso
y las nubes ennegrecen las posibilidades
cuando asoma otoño bicicleta

el algodón obsoleto se moja y tiene pierde
la lana mejora los prospectos
pero el agua muerde con ráfagas y gana

me aterran las intenciones de otoño bicicleta
sépome derrotado ante su arribo
pero me entrego igual, de forma unánime

lo que importa es acabar adentro

your weeks in the best-seller list

sure enough there you were
          everywhere
your outfit was one of those covers
          colored in guilty pleasures
the cap was the perfect blurb
          and your hair
so subtle a title, suggestive, so that
          pages whispered your smell

i was swept up with everybody else
          grabbed you, held you, took you
everywhere, nowhere without you
          ran my fingers through your lines
committed all to memory, fought sleep
          to finish your story and go over
my favorite passages, highlighting
          choosing your words

then i realized i had only seen
          your manuscript, dog eared
marked with the pencils of years
          bursting with the promise
and there you were, open to my last page
          but the ending was missing
your legs wrote past me as you left

i only read what i could in the time
i was able to see you browsing
i tried to find a copy in the basement
i was a fool to think of you as a bargain

it never really occurred to me i was the only
one could see you for the story you really were

         

so many more miles to go

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

another window looks out into our ignorance
another one is always offering unsolicited words
another reason to steal your smile and make it my own

there are no more stops from here on out
     across from you is a little bit warmer
than having to listen to more of his drivel
     the thundercarrot turns out to be nothing
but the latest disappointment, just a weird name
     and i still cannot muster enough gall to address you

perhaps this is not where we are supposed to be
perhaps dinner is not the answer you wanted
perhaps we didn't hear what we thought we heard

this is what happens when you decide to prioritize
     and everything i want is contained inside
the supple vessel of your lap, your eyes, your exit
     a bit of fresh air does not help at all and the way
you scan the passage of so many mistakes
     is nothing like the raised eyebrow to my passing

so this is how that emptiness grows and grows
so this is the best i can do without my dreams
so this how my road unravels in your back country

my beta carotene...

The way of the Thundercarrot
Kant break the pain with nuttin else
Baby carrott in the Ass
Baby carrott happenin fast!
Hi my beta carotene

Oh I wish I was still a teen
Take my ass to the back
Gonna shoot some fuckin crack

twelve hours later

it still buzzes deep inside my skull
with the clarity of a dream that slowly
unfolds into the waking hours
between stations and coffees and
there's always someone, isn't there?

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

you told me but I didn't exactly understand
might as well have been another language
but your back cannot lie and with its eloquence
speaks about many other things beyond
those fleeting reflections on the night windows

it will all end soon enough, maybe even
never at all have we become so entangled
among the ruins of what we're looking for;
a dangling sentence, a swinging body, a quiet
moment between the cars where solitude
is the undisputed shoddy kingpin of games
not finished before our ultimate destination.

derrame de contexto

la treceañera llora tanto
       un elepé completo de lastimerías
quejas, rejas, maderas, maldiciones
       que pregono desesperado
ojalaes y talveces inútiles

si se despiertan todos
       colamos café y hacemos tostadas
si nadie se queda dormido
       soñaremos juntos otra
vez y dos son tres pares de cojones
       que nos roban la paz
la isla y las postrimerías por venir

la treceañera ronca sin preocupaciones
el menor juega al mayor y la otra
siempre sueña con el otro lado
oscuro justo antes del amanecer

the house chapter

You know the house. The one everyone knows about, where all the deviant kids live with little if any adult supervision. You know the type; there are always two or three brothers and at least one slutty sister -- or perhaps she's the lone Jesus freak making a stand against the depravity all around her. More often than not, though, she's the slutty type, like the one who steals all the neighborhood boys' cherries just for sport. If you ask her about it, she'll dismiss you with a few words about veedee or some such crap.

These have always been dangerous times.

Well, I'll just go out and say it in case you haven't figured it out yet. That house? That den of secrets? That was home to me. And oh what a home... Being the youngest, I obviously got away with much more than anybody else, not that anybody else really noticed though. To labor in obscurity within one's own home is the weight that must be carried by the youngest in the house. As sure as all those hand me downs hanging in the closet, almost untouched, like a strange collection that must not be sullied with the hands of people. These are the second hand realities of us trailing behind as nothing more than afterthoughts, an idea that in retrospect it may not have been the brightest of ideas, but there's no use in fighting the wind.

"You have to ride it like a wave, never resist..." was the way she put it. She had a way about her, something I would later, much later, figure out could be classified as a pathological tourist. Always thinking about the next stop and hurrying everyone around. She was always trying to talk my middle brother into countless road trips and adventures. Elena, even her name seemed like it was passing through, blowing past us caught in some undercurrent that didn't affect the rest of us. Needless to say, my heart stopped whenever I saw her walk in the always ajar door of the house. That was one of the many perks of island life, the door always ajar to some degree, regardless of the level of secrecy needed by the activities inside.

It may have been a Saturday, when I saw her last, but it was definitely a weekend day. I remember because it was not long after my parents separated. They both had left the house that weekend and would not come back until Tuesday, thinking, or maybe wishing, the other would take it upon themselves to announce the break-up to the progeny spilling out of the three small rooms of the house. Of course, she was already there when I woke up on a couch -- another dubious honor for being the youngest; sometimes I had to find my own berth.

She was in the bathroom, but had not closed the door. I could've climbed up to the second story and used my parent's bathroom, but seeing her topless while smoking a one-hitter paralyzed me in my tracks. It was not so much the illegal herb but, of course, the supple bareness of her torso. I like to believe that she knew of my stilled presence by the door, contemplating her in sheer admiration. I could imagine how big my eyes must've seemed to her if she had turned around. But she didn't. After a long pause, she exhaled some smoke and announced, to no one in particular, "just a second."

And that was plenty to keep me transfixed by the door, the gesture of reaching for the doorknob frozen in mid flight. A slight trembling in one of my fingers. A beautiful shadow, all curves and roundness against the wall, thanks to the morning sun. Well, it wasn't really the morning sun, but I wouldn't figure that out for quite some time still. If I don't remember too much more it is not because it wasn't as memorable as I think it was, but rather, that weekend became a casualty of what was to come, from deep beneath our feet, in the guise of luminescent plumes foreshadowing the terrible tremors that would change things forever after. And if I can't really remember how old I was back then, it's because such things became irrelevant shortly thereafter.

It would seem -- isn't retrospect always 20/20? -- that looking back I should be able to say more of what actually happened in the following days, but the reality is that I can't, that as I stand here so many years after the fact and believe I'm recognizing her from afar, it all seems now like ancient, irrelevant history. I know it sounds counterintuitive to say so, but history is a luxury of the past we are unable to afford at the moment. But one thing was certain, my heart hadn't skipped a beat since that long lost weekend forever associated with the major break-up that ensued. A break-up in all possible levels, from my parents on to general island life. It all came apart and nothing, as the cliché goes, would ever return to the way things were in that house.

excerpt from "as we know it"

the ways

it was such a long way
everybody was sleeping
by the time of arrival

only very few were looking
out the windows, the stillness
the soft murmur of lazy feet
or a page whispering its life
the words of posterity pored
over for whatever clues we
actually do find upon a full stop

the coffee was predictably bad
there were very few surprises
but everything was somehow new
and you wish there'd be something
you could say in moments like these

not much to do but to tell yourself
that it will all come to pass regardless
of what anybody could secretly wish for

it was such a long song
that kept us silently there
eying the words carefully

or other

someone strikes a chord
and hairs stand on their ends
this could finally turn into
something worthwhile

something else

wandering around between us
like all the others that followed
this town is crazy, everybody
wants out but nobody wants

something else

must be on your mind
for you to walk that way
to say the things everybody
was waiting to meet, to be with

someone else

luna azul, miel azul

el truco es no usar mucha miel
solo la suficiente para cubrirlos

nuestros ojos nunca se cruzaron
nuestras palabras tampoco mediaron
nuestros deseos se disolvieron

entre tanto caminar sin llegar
porque siempre falta algo
un cronopio traspapelado
una servilleta garabateada
un número casi invisible en tu mano

nuestras dichas son desconocidas
nuestra sed, insaciable
nuestros sueños siempre se olvidan

el truco, susurras, para que más nadie
escuche tus intimaciones, tus ideas
es saber acostarte y cerrar los ojos

inmóvil
inverosimil
interlacustre

tu cuerpo, el agua, es pura bienvenida
tu ausencia, total e irremediable

nuestro silencio tendrá que funcionar

another page on the floor

For how much of you, incomplete
     I find buried in my drawers
I am convinced that for each
     unmatched sock
its partner lost forever
you've found your-self
with all my other halves

a page discarded in the fiction section, scribbled in pencil, of course, and having something to tell, something about us, something about them, something about nobody, folded and left between pages for another day

We spent too many days
with our clothes mapping
     the surface 
of our bedroom floors
to let each other complete
our daily wardrobes
without a reminder
of what's been lost forever

I have spent years
emptying myself like a closet
this old skeleton, my body
    inescapable

I no longer compulse, a fit
of voices speaking to
      your ghost

where does it start, where does it go, turning over a new leaf another song is taken down for future reference


have purged the lifetime of
      I love you's from the
      corner of my gut

and yet even the most simple
     routines remain
a puzzle, never finished
with those few pieces you've
     kept

and I can't even remember
how the picture looked before
so changed I keep changing
your unholy name such a curse
even once removed or displaced

The length of time I loved you
has passed once more and still
remains unmatched

unread perhaps, but found, found, found... 

and now for something completely different, albeit not entirely novel...

desde la guarida del vacapájaro....

1er (y último) movimiento

siento que me tomaría
toda una vida amueblar
con marmol del cantábrico
ese lugar que habitas en mí

luego descubro lo efímero
lo insostenible que es el presente
y por ende te pierdo hundida
en las profundidades de un pasado
perfecto, aún cuando permanezco
condenado a la cantaleta
de un pretérito pluscuamperfecto

cavilo: si el tiempo está sujeto
a la emergencia de la vida
¿quién soy yo para asegurar
que esta piedra no está viva?

entonces, hago la salvedad
de encerrar las anécdotas
en el condicional simple,
pues el compuesto es puro dolor

cuando me mude y me gane
el acento, te quedarás en un futuro
imperfecto, al dorso de la página
marcándote con el dañino doblez

tonight

somebody was forged in the fires of adversity
but they are not coming for you

someone else saw the intensity of her flesh
and proceeded to deny you your turn

one of them could've done something about it
but preferred to see just how you'd react

no one knew what it's like in those shoes
but it didn't stop from hurting so good

in the evening, the family gathers around
a cheap excuse to forego dinner altogether
and summon other daily disasters
from an impressive list of near misses

somebody forgot to lock the door
and another knew how to break in
and when to stop, please stop now
before it all turns into another routine

saberes

es saberse de otro, punto.

tuyo no,
sino ajeno

ser de otro,
la pertenencia
(el más fundamental de los sentidos)

u otra, que es lo mismo
pero no es igual, no
ese abismo no parpadea
como las estrellas

the ways I move over you

sometimes a chair, rarely a table
standing room always provides a way out
and the garb is like a whisper on the floor
the undergarments trinkets from beyond

let's sneak out back for the cold alley moon
and toast the matter at hand, under foot
there were always some who came late
but nobody missed the twinkle in her stride

tomorrow i'll alleviate your joints
and you will sing me away

the memory of her thighs will be fresh upon me
the sweetness of your aloofness will sour
and when I realize the day is now gone
there will be another round of escape,

another figure in the shadows awaiting a bit of light

it so happens

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

not quite beyond the pale
they said,
and they had the reddest moon
you thought

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

O.Q. Pay

there is a wall, with a woman with her mouth covered
and the wall speaks and its words are sprayed and they say
occupy my vagina, and my bus bears witness

headphones abound, screens are aglow, eyes wander
between spaces reserved for feet, secrets, embarassments
lips are pressed and cheeks flushed, the air is crisp
with inklings from last night on some faces

and of course there is someone talking to no one
and some one else is getting up, while a third checks
the seat out, brushes debris aside, sits to read an old paper

sounds are contained and the time is not well spent
we must enter through the front and exit out back
for the flow, for the way it moves between hellos
and goodbyes, so sick of so many goodbyes, you see?

there is a bit of refuse by your feet, a wrapper, a can
but i cannot lift my spirits and everything goes by the side
the sweet side of a known direction, an expected encounter
with the inklings of last night's excess all over your dress

la trampa del Temponauta

para el temponauta, no existen finales
pero le sobran todas las postrimerías

tu lengua es la ruta
tu camisa la bandera
tu retorno el chisme

a ver si me acuerdo de tus temas
que nunca calaron como debieron
y siempre me robaron las monedas

a ver si te sucede otra vez
esa historia tuya de culeos
y el resto de tus hoyes

a ver, acuéstate, como antes
como cuando me dijiste eso
y nunca más lo repetistes en serio

tu almohada es una trampa
y tus sábanas muy fecundas
mejores tus humos dulces de noche

para el temponauta, no existen postrimerías
pero le sobran los comienzos
y cuenta con punto culminante

esta orilla

el beat no para y el salitre no rinde
no funciona, no jala, en fin, no es
suficiente, sino su ausencia constante
y sonante, el espacio breve ése
que no aguantamos más, que ya
basta, no seremos los únicos,
pero tan pocos no somos, sino
el resto, el excedente de pretéritos

dos, siete, once, vente y no más
así es que llegas y te montas
a mirar por las ventanas sin saber
muy bien, qué puedes esperar
sino otro desajuste desos
uno más para tu extensa colección

y cuando regresas, el desconcierto
es total, pero también llena.
traes contigo el olor del momento
el vago vestigio del salitre intramuros

la llave entra, la noche desvanece
pero es como si algo tuyo se quedara fuera
como si de repente nunca saliste
nunca los viste y todo no fue
mas que pura elucubración solitaria

te esperamos en el oscuro zaguán
para que sepas que eres de los nuestros
te guste o no, quieras o no quieras
aquí te quedaste esperándonos

a nosotros que no nos duele el barrio
no nos huelen los estropajos
no no merecemos la piel
el cuerpo tibio de una más
a cuenta de este salitre que no está

que nunca llegó a estas orillas
como llegamos tú, yo y todos los demás

los molinos

Antes tenían la forma de un gufeo
luego se convirtieron en olas de mar
y ahora a veces tienen nombre y apellido

En cierto momento fueron narcótico
una paupérrima defensa contra la soledad
inminente que nos espera a nosotros
los que nos vemos presos del tiempo

Intenté incurrir en el temponautismo
pero como sucede con toda elucubración
desperté, y despierto volví al principio

pero estos sueños me pesan
estos otoños rotos me roban la calma
esta mujer imposible me duele
y los errores nunca se olvidan

porque ahora son logos y papeles
verdes, pero no del que sí importa
ahora son los ayeres y los mañanas

porque hoyes sólo hay uno
diejron por video desde el monte

en cuesta abajo

el sol ya no se mete por la ventana
y tú gastas 70 dólares en teatro al mes
o 100 en comedia improvisacional
a veces 50 en la sinfonía, 0 en cine

a veces inclinas las palabras a la derecha
en otras se tamabalean a la siniestra
siempre nítida, airada, tu letra

marla, dillon, california y zepeda
a veces silencio,
a veces nada más que nada
casi nunca todas

y sin embargo pones tu dirección
tu código postal, tu barrio exclusivo
con estacionamiento incluido
diez años va desde tu último tren

sanda, un par de iniciales, jota jota
sólo la sospecha de feminidad en el
puño y letra de la última respuesta

la luna se asoma como una opción
y abajo te esperan las ganas de salir
arriba sólo otra noche más sin sabor
y por si acaso, el correo electrónico

Taller

 Taller de Ficción!
hazme click!

la culpa es del cemento

as we know it (cont)

this being the reminder of chapter 1

The fact that he had been unable to persuade anyone else to come along said more about his own self than it did about the conditions on the island. Or more about the success the nighthoppers had at keeping their existence widely unknown, than about his inability to present a convincing argument. What had happened after all? What did he mean the world had ended? We were all still here, weren't we?, they all asked. Some people actually preferred not knowing and pretended it was pretty much normal, that it was all temporary. Sure, Gato told them, just like the Dark Ages were temporary. Hell, back in the day there were people who claimed there were about 600 odd years of history missing from modern reckoning. That now there was no shortage of food was true enough, but neither was there any way out of the island. Not that anybody minded, really, for most it was all kind of like a big party, an extended holiday. For most, it seemed, being cut off from the rest of the world had been a good thing. Nowadays there was hardly anyone left that actually remembered the rest of the world. In his lifetime, the world had shrunk, and to Gato that seemed plain wrong and went against everything he'd learned as a boy.

You had to hand it to the nighthoppers, they knew what they were doing. They had an uncanny insight into human nature, even though they seemed quite past their humble human beginnings. He on the other hand obviously did not. He had been certain that there would be land nearby, or at least relatively soon. He remembered the conversation clearly, as if it had been yesterday and not twenty plus years, and the map up on the wall with all those islands trickling downward toward the southern continent.

“You could sail all the way dow to South America and never lose sight of land. Everyday a new island, a new port.”

That had been his uncle talking to his own older brother, back in the day. Both of them were long gone now and had never been heard from again. Now he was all that was left of his dry, old family tree. And he would soon expire if things continued this way. It was the end of a line of sorts, and there was a certain finality that now appealed to him, surprisingly. He was tired, exhausted, but the hadn't realized to what extent until now, as he floated recklessly on the ocean and contemplated his own doom with an odd sense of relief and deliverance. He had left because he thought he would find passage to the real world, because he felt he had to do something before he became too old to do anything about it anymore.

There were no children, no wife, no significant other, not even an extended family... only himself. There was so much more than meaning missing in his life and it had not so suddenly become untenable to continue. A lifetime of ambiguity had come to a head, if you will, and resulted in a senseless shipwreck, an aimless listing of purpose and direction. And yet, an unequivocal feeling of being par for the course, of being on the right track, of all the possible ironies. As Gato pondered these slippery abstractions he couldn't help but agree and acknowledge that righteousness and stupidity were no strangers to each other. Perhaps he was indeed exactly where he needed to be. Or better, where he deserved to be.

Gone. Yonder.

as we know it

I started writing a novel in English. It's kind of a prequel to The 4 Books of Immortality. I just don't seem to be able to conceptualize any book that is not somehow related to the 4. It's almost as if once the 4 seeped into me, that's it, that was all there was. The 4 and then some, but all related. In a way it's good, because it really reflects life, where everything is connected. But it also frustrates me a little because then that may mean I'll never stop writing this book and it will by definition never be completed. This type of sprawl is similar to the ocean faced by the stupid protagonist in the paragraph that follows. This is from the first chapter of the novel, which is titled "As we know it". Let me know if it makes you feel like wanting to read on.

Here goes:

 

as good a reason as any

They fly toward grace.

Against the day

Thomas Pynchon

Stupidity. You could chalk it up to that. Another one for the history books, the latest so far in a long line of fabulously stupid undertakings. Seriously, we are talking the likes of which are seldom seen throughout the ages. Even though Gato would not really be aware of the actual magnitude of such stupidity until much, much later, when it would arguably be too late, he could already actually sense the hugeness of it, its sheer, dizzying vastness, not unlike the endless stretch of water before him.

And lunacy too, of course. I mean, he had only to look at that prolonged waterscape all around him to see how futile his enterprise was. How could he have thought that floating aimlessly about would improve anything? Who could possibly be out there, looking for random survivors? The sudden, rapidly budding nostalgia for the insanity of the island caught him off guard, which in turn only helped to increase his feeling of stupidity. Running out of water the previous evening was also playing a big role in the way his helplessness seemed so certain, so final. It overwhelmed him; the sun, the sea, the whitecaps flourishing across the surface in every direction, the harshness of the horizon and how it felt like a snare.

He realized then what a horrific irony it was to become aware of one's own stupidity just before dying, and how he had in fact hurried his own demise upon himself. Was the island really all that bad? Were the nighthoppers really that unreasonable? The world had ended after all. He knew it. Others saw it differently, but he remained steadfast in his belief. He may have been only thirteen when it happened, but he remembered plenty from the previous life to know what a drastic change it had been. He'd seen enough TV back in the day, and had been connected enough times to the Internet, to know first hand how bad things currently were. He was one of the last ones to remember the time before, and that had been enough for him to attempt, at the very least, an oceanic route of escape. It seemed almost impossible that the 'previous' world was completely gone. Something somewhere had to have survived. After all, they had, hadn't they?