20.9.12
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
18.9.12
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
14.9.12
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
12.9.12
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
9.9.12
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
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
Take my ass to the back
Gonna shoot some fuckin crack
7.9.12
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.
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.
4.9.12
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
3.9.12
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
2.9.12
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
1.9.12
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
30.8.12
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...
7.5.12
30.1.12
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
20.1.12
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
28.12.11
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
5.12.11
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
28.11.11
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
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
25.11.11
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
16.11.11
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
10.11.11
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
20.10.11
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
5.10.11
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
3.10.11
30.9.11
28.9.11
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.
27.9.11
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?
18.9.11
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
17.9.11
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
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
16.7.11
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
12.7.11
you tú
31.5.11
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.
20.5.11
do you?
18.5.11
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
1.5.11
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
26.4.11
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
29.3.11
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
17.3.11
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
24.11.10
Lunes, pero martes

no le vamos a conceder palabras
tampoco lo reconocemos, el ruido
eso que cruje debajo de la suela
pueden ser disparos diez calles
más abajo, o pueden ser
dimes y diretes, inclusive,
podría ser el grito desesperado
de ese amor atrapado en páginas
el viento apenas alude, al final
del día ésta es su ciudad, y somos
parte de lo que sopla por las noches
de lo que nos cuesta nombrar por
temor a equivocarnos, en fin,
nadie nos mandó a abrir esa gaveta
lo que encontramos nos deja lelos y
resulta que los días ahora
no son suficientes y las semanas
quedan trilladas en la nomenclatura
'de fiesta' que adorna nuestros años
de calendario y días de vacas
a ver si mañana amanece nublado
y la ciudad aguante la respiración
19.11.10
boys

it may be a good time for you
to take someone on a date
as i master the art of rolling
the perfect cigarette, with the punches
outside the girl with the red sweats
is running, not walking, the strange little dog
food takes forever
el busboy nos da vuelta
like a shark, round and round
nos reconocemos
it's time for me to focus
something i can hold on to
for real. for real?
this of course, puts me squarely
between a poem and the streets
the strange little dog had already done the deed
there was no need to walk
so we sat and waited
food takes forever
everybody else is staring
the game on the tv
boys, she said
might as well run
at this point
algo's bound to give
18.11.10
29.10.10
los días se repiten como el coro de una canción vieja

sutil lo sabemos porque somos iguales
su cede es como si nada, casi como si nada,
un monumento a la futilidad,
un picor inclemente, una condición crónica
y las uñas largas como lápices afilados
mientras
mientes sobre el papel, trazas el alivio
y
rascas elocuente en la parte entrañable
¿por qué tú? ¿por qué yo?
¿por qué tuyo y no mío?
mientras
¿y?
los días se repiten como el coro de una vieja canción
3.10.10
Homenaje a Rafael Hernández (el de Maricao)

Hoy tengo un morbo fatal
que me jode y me encojona
la vida está tan cabrona
que dan ganas de cagar
largo y tendido sentéme yo a pensar
que como jesucristo en su madero
flotando en este inmenso mierdero
en vez de una corona de espinas
llevo un cangrejo en los huevos
Rafael Hernández falleció hace unos días. éste, su poema, caló hondo en mí érase una vez. Q.E.P.D.
30.8.10
semanario

lunes
me sacudo las penas como pulgas
husmeo los traseros de los demás
(siempre pendiente al trasero de los demás)
mucho más interesantes que el mío
martes
lo fuerte de tu recuerdo es el perfume
permea el día e impregna las despedidas
alguien pregunta por ti y por el perro
el día termina en silencio y con alta presión
miércoles
los vehículos zumban en la autopista
los relámpagos acercándose a lo lejos
con los cigarrillos llegan las dudas
de todos modos los truenos no dejan dormir
jueves
apesta a grama mojada y pisoteada
la energía discurre sin ton ni son
arremete como cauce sin prisa
hasta el otro extremo del fin de semana
viernes
extrañamos a algunos, aunque no falta nadie
a tu hermano lo ubican en la ciudad
callamos y tomamos café, a la espera
de otra noche más para lucubrar
sábado
empiezan las llamadas, se desbordan las excusas
los reclamos se amontonan como latas vacías
y a todos se nos cruzan los quizáces
sólo yo reparo en la falta de correo
domingo
la tormenta ayuda a afrontar la amnesia
sobre el horizonte se perfilan como en un espejo
mientras más evito las miradas, más gente
aparece a doblar las campanas de la iglesia
11.8.10
la última vez

se dice de lo más remoto
se habla de lo más escondido
se sueña con la retirada
pero se duda con todo lo que me compone, lo que echo de menos
así es que se conforma el recuerdo, que se copula con la añoranza
tú en la penumbra, por supuesto, y yo sin idea, sin saber
que no viene otra después, que no hay guarida ni cuartel
escucho las voces e ignoro el café que me acompaña
pero no es suficiente, sigo ofuscado con tu sombra
promiscuído entre tus posibilidades y manifestaciones
sigo sentado, solo, atrás en las escaleras de hierro
dizque un escape para cuando ardan mis entrañas
y se cuezan mis titubeos ante tus pies, antes de dar media vuelta
atrás está todo lo que quise decir, lo que quise retener
lo que me propuse cuidar con el decoro que nunca tuve
la confianza que siempre me evadió, como el cariño
pos-traumático que marcó la hora de tu ausencia
esperé como esperamos todos en algún momento u otro
vi cómo las reuniones coagulaban conocidos a mi alrededor
cómo las emociones se disolvían ante el retorno
esperé hasta ser el único en mi casa, en la estación
y luego volví a ser el que nunca fui, sólo por un instante
nunca más, me dije, seguí allí, sentado, esperando
postrero, como siempre, pero con la mirada en el monte
photo:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/rafvs/4785530637/
21.7.10
It started as a letter

It did rain that day. And the next, of course.
The pale glow of the window was enough
which is not too say your shadows are sore and drowsy.
At their most egregious, some have said
even though I prefer them long and mean spirited
like that other time you were surprised not leaving.
The elements?
Well, there was the rain and the long shift by the phone
there was the sound of nothing to do screaming from long ago
and they were all there, their faces also in transit
where they're not as threatening as your note
standing vigil in the kitchen with the rest of them.
The elements?
Well, there was the surprise. All night long
like the heat from the clouds, the alley, the fire
escape to no avail, like the stuff of your words
all over the place, the detestable longing to be
elsewhere
that's what they said
what they read
what they conveyed
your notes
in every door, every wall
in every drop
It did rain that day. And the elements?
They were waiting for me outside of town
like everything else.
9.6.10
6.6.10
Síntomas del Mall
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