Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Hurricanes





Hurricanes


Clouds do not know where to rain
and the air smells of electric storms.

Blood, as it is logical, dissolves
into the river of concern.

Its honey removes the sediment
that falls on the island bed.

From each star hangs a probe,
a 110-volt extension,
in whose spectrum eyes see
translucent viaducts crossing water.

Everything is organism.
Here an artery, there a frond,
a mudhole its demulcent.

In an expanding
and contracting of pulses,
all is sown land.

Ignited, light-matter floats
on the water as its flora
is dragged adrift.

The only shore is night
and it's no shelter.

Eyes do not know where to cry
and the air is lightning's prism.

Where is the deity?

Blood is tragic
in its full torrent.

Monday, September 18, 2017

Dominant Pig








Dominant Pig


I was asked how to sustain homoerotic sex
without falling into intentional eruptions
which involve dominance. I answered
with a single letter: I let my mouth open
a heavenly poppy. The poppy opened
without anyone touching its petals.

These poppy fields, pig styles my blood,
gave in to intentions with stipulated traits.
That is how they exhausted lead skies, and their four
Asian walls, their nylon dresses.

The eruptions to which they responded
wrote a book whose backbone was a stem
and its leaves upheld the bark of the trees
made of the steel from which they were born.

On those poppy fields intentions reacted
with minor swings to insert themselves
into the tail of the firmament. It was
like making firewood from Ceiba trees thorns.
I didn’t care about the thorns, just the order
of the punctures they left on my hands.

Sunday, September 17, 2017

Sacred Tribal Breath





Sacred Tribal Breath


The oldest turtle in the tribe
tells sacred stories in dense,
exquisite language and behold,
our fragile understanding
is lost in a slow dalliance.

Primordial water, the foundation of earth.
The voice of archangels, a landfill of waning lights.
"Why hide?" Your voice, a perfect animal
that creeps among the stones to a trough,
bloody scales and tail.

An old Lady shouts, "Do not come back"
"You've wasted too much time on those visions.
If you continue like this you'll go blind."
And I grow feathers and take flight.

“Now, you will not suffer," a voice shouts.
"You will invent your own shadow
and your words will have a slight incandescence."
Then I dream I am a strange flower
that invents mud cities with its scent.
I dream I am a giant butterfly
nesting in the tribe, and the turtles
bow when I pass by.
        

Saturday, September 16, 2017

Paranoid






Paranoid


His reality, so small
he misplaced it. With a

deep poetic sense
but no metaphors, he spread

pieces of his body
as he walked.

He was assassinated
by his own shadow

after an unavoidable
persecution.

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

I got my Hard Copy of Sediments Literary Arts Journal

I got my Hard Copy of Sediments Literary Arts Journal

 and my electricity came back after 8 days of insurable heat because of Hurricane Irma.


Between Your Legs








Between Your Legs


Yesterday, I woke up under
a strange ceiling. I dreamed
I was a stray bullet at an irrational angle
or some shit like that.
Something, definitely better than what I can say about
this place. Maybe we've never been here or maybe I never
caught up with you. The point is, you are not here 
and nothing is as you said. L. A. is not a city of stars,
it is a city of clouds. Absolute stupid-amorphous-gray-clouds.
L. A. is, in any case, a ghost under a large cemetery of floating dreams.

I want to go, smoke between your legs, hear you
lie to me in deserts, storms, ammunition, ghosts, pins, wings, rain, night.

Your hair, my knees, your loneliness,
my grief: black chestnut, black you, me>you ...
Understand? I want to take you to the cemetery 
of dreams to watch infinity die.




Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Concrete Carnival







Concrete Carnival


You stood up, handsome
with the effect of a monster
that everyone calls fear
and fucks in the time it takes
a traffic light to empty nipples
and saves them onto lips
ready for kisses.

You were not always sunk
and scattered in night's grooves.
There was a time when your initiates
touched your sex like amaranth
hard as day-old caramel,
when the wind of wood pigeons
invoked a blast in your pants,
the cracks of your streets and sidewalks.
And there were bad times because
of my terminal illness of “the end of the trip"
where ice was not ice but it burned.

My heart hurts, on the right side,
whenever your kids call you faggot.
I feel like building a basement in your memory.
Do not let moss and fear give away your age.
I look in this city, your eyes,
high demand of your tile skin,
that once had the innocence
of Michelangelo's David 
and I sigh.



Wild Thin Chunks of Mercury





Wild Thin Chunks of Mercury


A Guesthouse in Old San Juan
a bed, a table, two chairs,
Sharon Olds waiting for me
over the toilet top.
I'll drink martinis the rest
of the afternoon.
I write things while I'm drunk
that seems good to me.
I wait for my friend from Condado
to pick me up slowly like 
pieces of mercury, and take me out 
to eat spaghetti carbonara
in a place where they have a Wurlitzer
because I want to listen to 
that Bob Dylan song,
wild, and thin chunks of mercury
all that I have left of life

Sunday, September 10, 2017

Do not Insist





Do not Insist

They've broken your heart.
Love is not love.
Cling to the mast.
Your ship is sinking
and there is no God
under sea or in sky listening
to your lament,
Ovid. Shut up and learn.
Let silence and storm
guide your sails.



Plath





Plath


I found life mixed
among the colors of death

My love amid violent reds
of empty lyrics

No one knows the loud speaker
they hear is my heart

There is a stone extending
its arms to embrace

the burning moss of my breath
Nobody sees me riding naked

on the warm spine
and emery of metaphors

when silence shoots me
in the mouth

and horror vomits
my bloody light

with the crushed skulls
of my dreams.

Friday, September 08, 2017

Two Poems Up @ Ordinary Madness, Weasel Press



Sam Smith's NEW SONG - Too Good At Goodbyes (Official Audio)

Natural State of Being




Natural State of Being


I live
between appeared and disappeared,
in women's or ghost's clothing.
I cross the folds of the mirror
and remain lucid,
guilty of dead dreams
in my consciousness.

A bite-proof bird.
I lay my eggs on trees
in secret islands
like a frigatebird.

My natural state:
wild fruit grove 
with frost
that does not mature,
a child in diapers
queen of the blind flight.

Appear and disappear,
a simple skin graft
and I am the other
and the same.

.

Wednesday, September 06, 2017

Monday, September 04, 2017

In a Dark Room






In a Dark Room


The rope hangs my eyesight
and I can't see the flight.
I’m drunk on this island
in flames. Can't screw
my eye if everything is
screwed up in here.

Hey, Skinny!





Hey, Skinny!

You are
the most powerful
oven on earth

you live in Paris
―almost
7 thousand Km
away

and yet
you heat me



The Nerve




The Nerve


You let me buy you
jockstraps, boxers
and aftershave
plus invite you to lunch
at the healthiest
naturalist restaurant
& if that weren't enough
on the way home
you asked me
for a moisturizing cream
to be soft
for the sonofabitch who’s
running his hands
through your body
at six.


Sunday, September 03, 2017

Hold On





Hold On

I’m bitching
about this hospice
for the indigent Word.

I don’t want to be trapped
in this caricature, my song
bouncing off the archway

germinating the cracks
on the floor with my shit.
Where the fuck are you?

Remembering Archer





Remembering Archer

I dismounted your sex.
Let go of your lips.
Untangled our legs.
Threw out the condoms.

Night started at 8:00
till 4:00 in the morning.

We slept. Huddled up
in wait of the day.



Saturday, September 02, 2017

First Takeover






First Takeover


The day has three faces
you must bundle it up

before smoking it
You can't roll it

and put it away
because it tastes different, dry

You can't buy prepaid days
lined up in a box

We senses days the same way
a bassist guesses the entrance

of the piano or , he sax
it's announced by the aroma

of coffee we drink
like evictees

Ficus leaves





Ficus leaves

are hearts of stars
they rise like a herd
of gestures that lunch
on cobwebs and read fire
like nervous owls

they mend each other like fire
mount each other like dust
swallow each other like seas
revise each other like air

perennially brief
perennially fleeing

They're leaves
             loving each other
                   they only rise

I Let Myself Fall







I know my life
will end the way
a storm ceases―
dissolved in your image
already water

I’ll return
to your sweetness―
sparkling wings
of doves spread more air
than the hurricanes

your face
lost in the crowd,
using my hand 
as its bed,
dictates my death

a throb under
the asphalt awaits ...
the stream of life
that shapes and destroys me
arrives at your shrine

crossing your garden,
pierced so many times
by the bougainvillea
I turn away life
forgetful of the tumble

pierced - tanka





crossing your garden,
pierced so many times
by the bougainvillea
        I turn away life
forgetful of the tumble


a throb - tanka






a throb under
the asphalt awaits ...
stream of life
that shapes and destroys me
arrives at your shrine

your face - tanka





your face
lost in the crowd,
lying in bed
on my hand,
dictates my death

I’ll return - tanka





I’ll return
to your sweetness―
sparkling wings
of doves spread more air
than the hurricanes

a song - haiku





a dove or a child
a song between
bed sheets

my life - tanka





I know my life
will end the way
a storm ceases―
dissolved in your image
already water


Thursday, August 31, 2017

When Language Breaks








When Language Breaks

The most genuine tree fills up with you
and your larvae. The narrowest street,
the one full of gossip, inhabits you.
Water pronounces your name
when it suffuses our hands
with pure beauty.

You draw your face
on the most horrible dry winter leaf
and I still recognize you.

Although the world surrenders to us all
it's impossible to reach you.
Right now, no one’s home.
Only you. And you're howling
like a wounded wolf.

A part of me, of your light,
left with to the last name
that names us. The other part,
the smallest, disappeared with your voice.
I mean, your voice was the language
of everyday things when you lived.

Now language is the skin
of the world. That's why
we always baptize Death
wearing blindfolds.

That night I talked to my father
who sat at the table. I said
what Sharon Olds never could ::
The photograph I wanted to find
in the family album ::
Brothers and sisters together.
My parents, euphoric couple in love,
pure honest love. Everyone
on luminous, imported paper.

But the impossible falters again
on these pages :: Because beauty,
father, beauty does not sleep
with the living.


I got my hard copy of The Stillwater Review where one of my poems appears

I got my hard copy of The Stillwater Review where one of my poems appears. Excellent printing job, I love it!


Wednesday, August 30, 2017

Issue 12 of UNDERTOW TANKA REVIEW is Live!

Painting by Mario Carreño Morales,

Encuentro Junto al Mar

a river - haiku






a river 
runs through my life
thirst hounds me

Abacus Sun




Abacus Sun


Names
covered with ivory exile
enter my room

isolations whitewash the walls
camouflage, their trickeries

Even the purest air
brimming with morning white
thins

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Poem Up at Califragile

Poem Up at Califragile, A new journal owned and edited by one of my favorite poets, Wren Tautha: On My Way to Disbelief 


My first Collection of Poems, Elephant Graveyard, will be published




My first Collection of Poems, Elephant Graveyard, will be published in the US. I'll let you all know more as soon as I can.




Monday, August 28, 2017

Tattooed with Chinese Script




Tattooed with Chinese Script


I wake up every morning before the rest of the city
to open the birdcage so you’ll hear the bird sing.

Wake up broken, open the cage, gulp the tears,
blow what remains of my wings at dawn.

My eyelids are tattooed with Chinese script.
I put away my cross-eyed heritage,

my short path to erotic paintings,
my wet torso moaning with desire,

to call out you. You know my dead,
my gestures, my prayers.

You offer them food,
serve them my eyes that never sleeps,

have not lived here for a century.
You name the bird, guess if it is captive.

Letter #51





Letter #51


Today there’s a self-drawn sketch of rice
on my forehead, a tiny sorrow.
This mourning is the unhappy reward
of what we never talk about.

Today I tire of birds,
cut off my wings. A tiger
devoured my arms,
an old disgruntled tiger.

It drank my blood,
disappeared like smoke
resembling the roar
of an insomniac ocean.

Today I walked into the surf
with my pockets full of rocks.

Youth carries with it the demanding, relentless need to relate everything to love





Youth carries with it the demanding, relentless need to relate everything to love


Martin, I sat on the doorsteps of your house. I saw flowers with leaves like swords. They looked like soldiers. You were a soldier. You marched into my life. I came to say, I love you but you were not here, so I wrote it down on a notepad. Martin, I stopped writing to let my arms hang uselessly over my body.


I always sat down and waited, even as a child I bided my time. All women wait for a future life, their images forged in solitude. We see bridesmaids walking towards us, a promise, a man, a pomegranate that opens and displays its red, shiny grains, a pomegranate like a thousand mouths. Oh, my love, we are all so full of inner portraits, so full of unappreciated landscapes.

Sunday, August 27, 2017

I dive








I dive

into those tiny pitfalls that set us up for life,
traps as small as the cages to hunt sparrows.
Some days, on specific days, Mondays and Fridays,
when opening my balcony, I look and see
with all my senses, hear with all my senses,
smell with all the senses. I am a stubborn fiddle
in evidence, a delusional excuse
and life flips on me like a card game.
It makes me fall in love with new lips,
hurries and makes me as essential
as driving credentials, a: here is my hand,
my millions of hands.
My skin quivers with infinite pity.
Humankind kills, dies, lies, steals, gives up
with its back to Beethoven's Ninth
in the voracious desire for permanence.
Confuses freedom with movement.
Sleeps armed against other men
and against the little man inhabiting
the clearest corners of my chest
despite that music, despite the sun
that rises. Despite the fierce, clean, morning Ode
to Joy denying the spoils of yesterday's dinner.
Life today presents itself in a costume
and I know it's a trap. But I give in,
get drunk, and accept any kind of a truce.
I'm a spiral, a seesaw, a chorus, because when
I open the balcony door, when I look, see,
listen, and smell with all my senses, and know
life has taken out a deck of cards from its sleeve,
all I can do is beg in my favor.


On my Way to Disbelief





On my Way to Disbelief


There are times when everyone
remembers the living as if they were dead,

the way time disappears from noisy places.
I want my life to fade from the globe,

be inspired by the silent rotation
where all things are hushed

and not even God survives.

I believe - tanka






I believe
in empty spaces . . .
the honey
of his skin against my face,
the wounds he left in my pith

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