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.