Monday, April 23, 2018

Yo por ti





Yo por ti 

no lavaría cadavers 
ni dormiría sobre cajas 
en las entradas de acceso  
de los que se fueron huyéndole 
a los huracanes 

Ni me dejaría poseer 
por hombres apestosos a vejez
ni crack-queros adolescents 
descoloridos 

Ni me iré de bar en bar 
frotándome con vodka como pero 
que se frota en el enchufe vivo 
mientras tu te mueres de la risa

a mí nadie me pone bozal

Te esconderé en los cajones de harapos 
llenos de veneno para ratas 
que alimento con mi propia carne

Thursday, March 22, 2018

Now this pain is tears

Now this pain is tears

 
and that's okay. Ulysses
let's dance, let's love.

Flower of the sweet wind
that trapped me, branch of my grief:
make me whole, leaf by leaf.

Lull yourself in my dreams,
I clothe you with my blood,
this is your cradle.
Let me kiss you one by one,

the many men you are, foam coral,

Nestor, yes, Edwin when Andres,
let me cry and see you.

I am nothing more than tears now
and I lull you, Ulysses, cry, cry.

Monday, March 12, 2018

Incidentes Nocturnos







Incidentes Nocturnos


¿Qué pasa si me voy
y el viento sigue oliendo a jacinto?
¿Seré, una llamativa disposición
de núcleos Gaudi, un círculo gris
del tamaño de una manzana
en la túnica de un judío, evitando
más accidentes eco-biológicos malos?
Cada niño todavía tiene una linterna
encendida adentro. Que las Madres
no apaguen a sus hijos.



El huerto de flores es negro,
suntuoso en el vacío.

Setas de patas azules alinean la pasarela
a mi puerta. No se las sirvo al hombre
que amo. Nos acostamos como si
estuviésemos en una góndola. Venecia
es magnífica en el frio de diciembre.
La araña violín tiene seis buenos ojos,
arreglados de tres en tres. Los bordes
de las cicatrices también tienen cicatrices.
Esfinge, eres inescrutable.

Saturday, March 10, 2018

I know You by Your First Name



In my house
loneliness sits on an armchair,
stirs my bed sheets and opens the book
where my rival’s name is written.

Soledad, my enemy, wakes me
to injure like a tightrope
around my throat.

I don’t take my innocence
to that well. I’m not the one
whose dawns are clouds
and poison ivy climbing
the stairs to the bedroom.

I sit alone at the breakfast table,
alone turning off the TV to pray
and receive the devil of insomnia.

My enemy ties me up
with obstinate dialogue
morning, noon, and night.
But no one can say
I don’t put up a fight.

Beyond my skin and more,
inside of my bones, I love.
Beyond my mouth and its words,
from the knot of my tormented sex,
I know I will die from nothing
other than love.

Friday, March 09, 2018

Ya ni su trigo precisó

Ya ni su trigo precisó


la casa de mi rival
esta poblada
de muchas superficies

no puedo quitarme
el caparazón

temo golpearme
con los roncos lamentos
de mi amante indeciso

el jardín de mi rival
esta habitado 
por huecos vacíos

y el cielo quebrado
que son mis labios ligeros

hace mucho que abandono
su hoguera

Thursday, March 08, 2018

Looking Out from Where You Once Stood

Looking Out from Where You Once Stood


The corners never turn.
No witness established
the degree of their fractured
evanescence, angles bear
the taste of swearability.

The arc of memories
arranged with patience:
bitter, moist, entangled.
A trigger that makes
the human heart bleed.

Fiction allows a corner
to be replaced (curved, bent)
so one can breathe. Answers 
the real, the vacated.

Malleable, the wall
where one was cherished.
A sense of curvature stands
where once you stood.


Monday, February 05, 2018

The distance between us











The distance between us



feels like an iron cloud
covering all my body.
Could it be we were born
to wander on opposite poles?

I’m undulating river
lying on your dreamlike 
Lazarus chest
oblivious to my leafless twilight.

I have patches of yellow 
planted on my skin 
that are not immune to cold.

Today I sing you my melody
The same as I’ll sing it tomorrow.

Maybe you're too far to taste 
the gifts you’ve already savored
from my wedding banquet.
I do not care, my Lazarus. 
The distance won’t make me impatient.

You sowed flower and new moon 
long ago on the clear surface
from my tearful day. But now 
I do not know if I remember 
the color and texture of your hair.
I don’t even recall
your reflection in my eyes.

Saturday, February 03, 2018

La distancia entre nosotros





La distancia entre nosotros

parece ser una nube de hierro

que cubre todo mi espacio.

Será que hemos nacidos

para vagar siempre

por polos opuestos?

Soy río ondulante

acostado sobre tu pecho

de ensueño

ajeno a mi deshojado

crepúsculo.

Tengo salpicaduras color amarillo

que no son inmunes al frio.

Hoy te canto igual que mañana.
Quizás estás demasiado lejos

para saborear mi banquete de bodas.

No me importa, mi Lázaro, con la muerte

no puedo ser impaciente.

Hace tiempo sembraste  

claveles y lunas azules

sobre la superficie clara

de mi lloroso día.

Pero hoy, hoy no se

si recuerdo el color

de tu pelo y no veo

me reflejo en tus ojos.

Wednesday, January 31, 2018

Vienes a la ceremonia

Para ti mi querido amigo!



Vienes a la ceremonia

como enlace salvaje de mi silencio,
tu lógica bien apasionada.

Atestiguas la cadencia que estalla
dentro de mí en este instante. 
Sazonas mi fuego, sostienes los hilos 
invisibles manteniéndonos juntos
con un retrato 
que enciende mis ojos.

La suma de todos los minutos, 
esos detalles minuciosos, 
esas correcciones no especificadas, 
se han grabado en mi mente.

No ocultaremos lo que nos une.

Ven a mi ceremonia 
con voz tan salvaje 
como el silencio.




Monday, January 29, 2018

In the Dark





In the Dark


I spent the whole night with my arm in a hole.
I was not in a classroom of saints
at that hotel on the outskirts of town;
queen size bed too soft to feel any comfort.
A vulgar living arrangement.

Spent the whole night with my arm
in a hovel instilling the devil with witty rage.
Words no longer dazzle, they’re in the dark.
Write what you kill. Let the snail piss on your mask.

Remember: when you go to the cinema
to see Hollywood movies, you are not white,
or black, you’re not even Jewish.
Don’t get into something as complicated as God.
Don’t argue with me. Don’t sell Barbie doll ribbons.
Don’t bring me their severed limbs.
Don’t ask me to learn to respect things I can’t see.
Touch what you kill.

I haven’t been able to write theatrical screenplays
for a couple of years now. Drama is nothing more
than a passing skill better done in the dark.
I spent the whole night with my arm in a hole.


Friday, January 26, 2018

I Guess I'm in Love





I Guess I'm in Love


I guess I'm in love,
and it is stupid, absurd. Love songs


make me cry and feel lonely.
At night I watch more television


than usual. I've fallen in love with Jose,
and Winston has fallen for me,


alternatively, Alberto and Victor,
I laugh, and I cry all at once


when I kiss them.
You do understand that I'm smart


but humble and simple, and I find
great comfort in also being truthful.

Thursday, January 25, 2018

out of your mouth - tanka




out of your mouth
nocturnal treachery...
your trickery adds syllables
and pauses to my ashes
after pleasure

Poems Up @ Cultural Weekly

Three poems Up @ Cultural Weekly

Wednesday, January 17, 2018

Under a Beech Tree







Under a Beech Tree

Dancing through stillness
the stars learn of the tireless work

and bleak future of thinking.
The message unclear

possibilities unknown.
They cross the cosmic streets

flaunt their lives, their afterlives.
Cling to sensations when physical bodies

are absent. Bodies use to hearing
songs while lying on Mexican blankets,

drinking poems, reading wine,
heads stuck in the heavens.

Let's talk about us






Let's talk about us,

we are not simple
but yes, we're vulgar.
I'm not sad or happy,
my resentment is made up
of frost, understand me?
We need very little.
For example, more time
to kiss two or three 
other mouths
without committing.
We need plausible passion
in the background of what 
we’re willing to receive,
maybe loyalty and commitment.
But we’re soft and stupid,
and never stop crying.
Mud drags the earth 
that unites us. We’re misery 
of infinite nothingness, 
and everything’s 
understandable frost.

Monday, January 15, 2018

Precipitation






Precipitation



My marble gaze flings against the front glass.
The wind whips, licks, tames my bifocals.
A tree stripped of its sad spangle
vibrates, almost boils, in the open air.
The artificial crack in the front glass,
like my love never ends.
The arrhythmia reminds me to take off my clothes.
It's like walking on hot coals
when I walk without you.
The twin rocks of my crystalline eyes tremble
when you say your name on the other side
of the phone, it rattles my eardrum.
I hear your voice on the phone
and it's raining.

Saturday, January 13, 2018

Dilapidated






Dilapidated


You left the island on my lower back 
deserted.
Today my own
carnivore flagpole 
eats at me from the inside. 
The carousal begins.
It spins around
red orbits on fire. 
I know I am at the center of a dying planet.
My headband kisses the ground, 
while I imagine my scrotum exploding.
The walls of my body wrapped with small jelly beans,
our misfortune rejoicing. 
They urge me to this pressing urgency.
Convulsed,
out of ordinary words.

Nothing is


Nothing is

Others have already said
but I'll repeat it: Nothing is forever ...
Not even this disguise,
my naked body,
that I jealously guard
in view of everyone.

I have dreamed everything that I am
so as not to leave empty the lines
where the other should go:
the other, the real one.
Dreamed that I'm stuck in mountains of water.
My house uprooted, floats
adrift in the current
towards a precipice.

DNA of escape
inherited from my grandfather.
That's why I sent you my nudes
closing the door.

Friday, January 12, 2018

Desiderata, Is It Needed






Desiderata, Is It Needed       
There are days 
you walk around dazed
and you're not very friendly.
Minutes, even hours, 
find you lost and I know 
my presence confounds you.
That's when you start talking
in whispers. It's your way 
of asserting the strands 
of silver on your head,
your Lord of the Flies dance 
around my campfire.
Don’t let it blind you. Virtues 
abound in everyday heroes.

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Tuesday, January 09, 2018

Desperate






Desperate

The sea blew wind chimes,
wind chimes dried the red roses,
the roses heads of martyrs.

My memory full of words, my thoughts
looked for ghosts, forgotten nightmares
from many nights ago.

At dawn, my thoughts flew like seagulls.
In the lit windows the ever-present portrait
of death made desperate efforts to flee.


Poem Up @ Califragile

Poem Up @ Califragile

Poems Up at Unlikely Stories Mark V

Unlikely Stories Mark V



Monday, January 08, 2018

El por qué la Mujer Maravilla siempre se afianza sola




El por qué la Mujer Maravilla siempre se afianza sola



En el sinuoso devenir 
hacia mi destino perfecto

voy a ser como 
la Mujer Maravilla 
que hasta en su soledad
se maravilla de si misma 

pero es incapaz de separar a su Amado 
de lo que se ha convertido



Collusion





Collusion





Your eyes gazed

on me with such quiet

simplicity that for a moment

they awakened my already

unusual feeling of sadness.

Your eyes examined me

with such quiet despair

that for a moment you awakened

my atrophied piety.

Your eyes looked my way

with such hushed curiosity

that I was briefly shaken

by the iron teeth of a curse.

Your eyes studied me

with such desolate intensity

that for a moment I blessed

the miserable glint of tradition.

Your eyes glanced at me

with such unparalleled

interrogation that words were

just utterly useless.

Your waterlogged eyes

pored over me with such

desperate love,

that for a moment

I thought I’d discovered

the terrifying image

of complicity.

Saturday, January 06, 2018

Vienes a esta ceremonia





Vienes a esta ceremonia

como enlace salvaje de tu silencio,
su lógica bien intencionada.

Atestigua la cadencia que estalla
en este instante, sazona el fuego,
sostén los hilos invisibles
que nos han mantenido juntos
sin quemarnos.

La suma de todos
esos minutos, esos detalles
minuciosos, la corrección
no especificada de cada
media hora, se ha grabado
así misma en los centros
que ocultamos de los seres
en que nos hemos convertido.

Ven a esta ceremonia
como una voz que vuelve
tan salvaje como tu silencio.

Todas las contingencias están
abiertas a la discusión.
La buena voluntad puede ser
el tema en el aire.

The arch of my life




The arch of my life

would not be the same
without you in it.
That's why these words
are not just for you.
They are if you want,
somewhat selfish.
I like to think that
even in silence,
and at a distance,
you're always there.
It is important that you know
I feel you closer
then what you really are,
and that I celebrate you.
I sense the kisses and hugs
from one of your homeland,
here in the Caribbean
of my heart, that you
enlightened and illume.

This Friday





This Friday 
is an indelicate 

gesture. 
It neither shouts

nor kisses 
nor frightens

nor hugs. 
It contains rage,

does not let it out. 
It is a hand

that dances in the nude
and is sought.


Wednesday, January 03, 2018

celebrate night - tanka




I celebrate night,
the beauty of its murmur
with the almost whisper
of the ashes falling
from my cigarette

Tuesday, January 02, 2018

Saturday, December 30, 2017

December 31st - tanka - ~ Dedicated to San Juan, Puerto Rico





December 31st
night's broken
residue--
the slow freedom
of a city in darkness

~ Dedicated to San Juan, Puerto Rico
New Year’s Eve 2017

I’m Somewhat Certain





I’m Somewhat Certain





I do not know for sure, but I suppose

that two men can one day love each other,

if they’re left alone little by little,

something in their heart tells them that they are alone,

alone on earth they penetrate each other,

they kill each other.

Everything is done in silence. As

light amasses inside their eye.

Love unites bodies.

In silence they fill each other.

They wake up in each other’s arms;

Then they know everything.

They're naked and they know everything.

(I do not know for sure, but I suppose.)

Friday, December 29, 2017

An Illustration of My World





An Illustration of My World





The same as your non-existent window.

Like a shadow of a hand on a ghost instrument.

The same as veins and the intense manner

by which blood travels through them.

Always with the same equity,

offering me its precious

continuity it ideally ensures

your existence.

From a distance.

At a distance.

Despite the distance.

With your forehead and your face,

all your presence, not closing your eyes,

and the landscape that leaps

from your presence when the city was not,

could not be

but the useless reflection

of your hecatomb presence.

To wet the feathers of birds even better

this rain falls from on high.

It locks me inside you.

Inside

yet far from you

like a lost path

on another continent.

Poems Up and acceptances




poem up at The Writing Disorder


Poem accepted at Barking Sycamores

Poem accepted at Narrow Road

Poem Accepted at Unlikely Stories V

Poem Accepted at Survision

I'm thrilled

Tuesday, December 26, 2017

On the Run







On the Run





Little by little I lose my star.

I am the orphan of something that dies.

I open the capsule to the most virginal silence,

evidence the light and word that impede me.

I am the perfume of the disinherited rose.

The orphanhood of beauty freezes me!

The full moon man and the human oblivion dump

are extinguished inside me. My voice sinks

and collapses like the language building

where God’s seamless epicenter resides.

There is no doubt, I am leaving for balsam

and sleep. The alive desire of the sonatina

with which I call “my man” to the party

has been ambushed. It's without earth wind

or the diphthong of my lyrical moan.


Sunday, December 24, 2017

Muted Things






Muted Things




When I was of age,

older than letting go

of the drool and shake

of my little arms,

I learned three dirty things

inside me:

My father said,

there's nothing for lunch.        (I’m poor)

I felt myself blush upon discovering

the throbbing, huge sex of one

of my uncles

under his pajamas.      (I’m a homosexual)

I saw a very fat cousin

convulsively clutching

a glass, singing the toast

from “Traviata.”         (and I love Art)

Events seething inside me.


Cold Fronts




Cold Fronts


There are days that decompose
moans, and there are dizziness’s

and cold front sentences, pasts stars
that can sense every emotion.

They remember everything. It is the
inescapable shock of memory;

the beginning of a day that has no choice
but to begin, that just offers itself.

Who knows what it feels.
 It never gives up.

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