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
dijeron 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?

semántica cuántica

batallo buscando la requerida nomenclatura
me pierdo entre tanta torre cristalina, tanto brillo
me cuesta ubicarme, determinar mi posición
en relación a los demás, a los que están por ahí


los escucho, los veo
los percibo por doquier
les sigo la pista
hurgo sus residuos
pisotéole las huellas

finalmente me detengo ante la primera torre
esa que vi alguna vez en una fotografía
la que le soltó las amarras al deseo cosmopolita
que desembocó contra la ventana de la 58
una delta de ilusiones sobre el parque centrifugal
en el meollo urbano de mis pretéritas trayectorias
e hizo que te desabotonara los peros y te clavara
los ojos por última vez, me inmiscuyera en ti
una vez más para no descuidar la nostalgia

las digresiones también cicatrizan


ante la torre y la expectativa perdida
decido correr y esconderme entre las palabras
para que no duela tanto esta multitud fantasma
estos días que se rinden ante el recuerdo y el agua
que cae como siempre se me caen las tardes

un albergue entre las letras de algún nombre

not like maine is falling

lluvia, calor, el verano en las tablas
el frío y la melancolía de octubre
the moment they all turn red
cognatos del cuerpo encima
el uno del otro alrededor de ella
se troca en rayuela fuera de lo meta
y justo en el centro, que puede
que no sea centro, del mismo cuerpo

cuando me levanto despejo la cama
y descarto los sueños de noche
llevándome sólo el acento clandestino
de la palabra, la maldita palabra
queda entonces el repaso, la revista
por los estados más inhóspitos

los terruños de lovecraft y el tedio
del horror cotidiano y tremebundo
del litoral de septentrión y sus babas

we must get back to the coast
todavía quedan posibilidades

conversation with a gorilla

hey man, you don't look so good
but what can you expect, eh?
trapped as you are in the middle
of all this people around you

hey man, you seem awfully serious
pretty grave, to be honest
intensely bored out of your mind
and again, no surprise there

hey man, believe it or not
i know how it is, this way
that we break, like so much
dry weed in our hands

i mean, sure, mine aren't
human hands like yours, but i have
a feeling you know what i mean
like i know how you feel

you tú

you no eres tú
but all the others lumped
together over

there are many yous
pero sólo estás tú
mi vernáculo

Llegaron los chinches

No me pregunten quién los trajo ni cómo, porque tales especulaciones pueden volver loco a cualquiera. La verdad no puedo precisar cuándo fue que llegaron, pero llegaron en grupos de cinco y seis y se metieron en cualquier rendija para quedarse. Llegaron con huevitos y primos y larvas y familias extendidas. Llegaron chiquitos y grandes y hambrientos. Llegaron en bultos, camisetas, gorros y zapatos. Llegaron y se apoderaron de las almohadas, los libros y la mecedora tan cómoda esa de cincuenta dólares que compré en el Ejército de Salvación. Sabrá Ostiamundo si hasta llegaron en la cochambrosa susodicha sin yo darme cuenta. Llegaron y se metieron en cuanto recoveco encontraron en el primer piso y siguieron subiendo hasta llegar al cuarto piso. Llegaron y comenzó la rasquiña. Llegaron y me tuve que chupar tres horas de los más horripilantes videos de Youtube. Llegaron y cundió el pánico del día a la mañana. Llegaron los chinches a la Villita.

do you?

you know how your wife is alone tonight?
feeling.

you know how your wife is feeling tonight?
alone.

you know how your tonight is feeling?
alone.
there is no wife.

do you know how alone you're feeling tonight?

ojalá la soledad me dejara solo

sucede que el deseo ahora
sólo rinde cansancio, el dolor,
tan descarado en su momento, pura
monotonía, pero no de la buena,
como la música de bob, más bien

como el insoportable calor de los trópicos
cuyo implacable sonsonete
embrutece y deshace las cosas

estas cosas
que constituyen
a estas alturas
mi única compañía

ocurre que me agota tanto
espiar parejas en la calle
imaginarme que soy yo
y que ésa eres tú

no puedo más con las mentiras
que yo mismo me preparo
de la mismita manera
que me preparo los espaguetis

sin ganas, sin sabor
porque no me queda

más remedio

otras many

remember the first?
yeah, me neither
then there she was

¿muerto quieres misa?

what about the second?
teeming, but only nicknames
almost cute and the salmon

and then there were three

four hearts, like cows
have stomachs, all beating
and that's only el principio

september slumber before
the fifth and after six
there were no more lives

left over, seven nine
and ten not to
mention in between, the rest

all lived together
but at different times
before and after

we became neighbors and all

un day sí otro not
they all spent the night
some more than one

two stayed a while
both kept looking
at the door, the open door

the baby didn't cry
right away
it was a girl

it always starts with a girl

nowhere but You

we must, and converge we will
rising might be a big if
what you say is true, then, you
are as final as any destination
can be, as tiring as any trip
must, lagging in the jet stream
of consciousness, of arrival

at long last the field is level
the gathering is slow, but steady

i choose the person
the body that disturbs
the cliched case of life
imitating art imitating life
a certain swagger come and gone

but there must be stakes, obsession
a sense of the now, deliberate
and urgent, that fierce indignation

well, i'm afraid there is
nowhere else but you
in dreams, on stage

and off

when one does the pursuing

the things i've seen

things like cold demons
that are my lovers, my sights
unseen but with closed eyes

things that crawl up my leg
and wrap themselves around my past

these things
these things i've seen were always there

always like something else
billowing above our wants

watching over us like so much silence
waiting like so much undone still

i guess this is what happens
when one does the pursuing
and you're like catnip to me

the things i've seen
these things have never come to pass

like the stations in life
or underground, hurling along

we will wait and do as were told
at least until our lips meet
like that one time outside the door

the things i've seen

HIV (high in vain)

veintiocho de de julio
de milnovecientonoventidós
una ciudad cae en medio de un edificio
derruido entre polvo y basura
una calle estudia al hombre
hambriento
unos regalos se disuelven en un niño
una radio un libro un cachorro

el veintiocho de julio
de milnovecientosnoventidós
alguien ajusta una correa vieja
alrededor del bícep
en realidad justo encima
la cuchara caliente, el algodón
prieto
un pequeño chancro en el labio
molesta y no quiere que la bese
otra vez desaparece fulano
esta vez en centroamérica
mucha gente aplaude y las luces
ciegan ojos, anulan el dolor
de estómago, una lágrima invisible
unos cuantos reunidos para
escuchar el resultado de la Prueba