Monday, August 30, 2010

To the insolence of a scream


To the insolence of a scream











The new big bang, is it the cry of an Emperor’s tired mule, or the screaming
scent of night blooming jasmine?  Perhaps it is the riddles of the blue men
of the Minch enchanted by the chocolate fragrance of the night, or the turquoise music of the deckhands.  The new big bang, we got so dressed up for that event we looked like mannequins who vomited because worrying builds up fat.  

Sunday, August 29, 2010

The Phone Call


The Phone Call


I turn my face and I am ten sitting by the phone waiting for your call.  All my dead
are in a field of butchered children striving to appease this racing blood.
I’ll renounce every grudge with a million oaths, press out every umbrage
that fills my chest with pus if that phone rings and you ask for me, your only son... mother.

Friday, August 27, 2010

In This Well




In This Well


Come, there are no bodyguards in this well, only a shrine covered with crosses and a high mast fanned by invisible winds.  These mud walls regularly flinch like a drunken homosexual who just found out he’s HIV positive. “I want flowers, arum lilies, gardenias, and tulips; it’s the end of the year, time to celebrate.  Oh, and don’t forget to rent Gone with the Wind.  Please, no ashes, I want to be a diamond on a flashing white finger."

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Tinta: Cible: Ink: الهدف









Tinta


Entintar tu cuerpo con la nada  Sobre mi piel anudada  Es borrar la esquina de nuestro arrabal  Devolver los ojos tajeados al paredón de mi niñez. 




Cible


D'encrage de votre corps avec rien sur ma peau nouée Est effacé nôtre ghetto
Rendre les yeux coupassent au mur de fusillés de mon enfance.




Ink

Inking your body into nothing On my very knotted skin
Erases the corner of our ghetto Returns these slashed out eyes
to the executioner's Wall of a sad and lonely youth.






الحبر


بلدان منكم الهيئة لا تملك شيئا مني جدا باﻵخرين الجلد
أو زاوية نظرنا الغيتو عودة هؤلاء الى تخفيضها
في عينيه ألا في جدار الحزن على أعمال الشباب.


Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Mercedes Sosa & Caetano & Gal & Chico & Milton do Brasil

Time Waits


Time Waits




Once I was a mute rock, a muffled accordion, smothered cello hiding in my
secret pain, wearing a trench coat of unidentified emotions.  There was always
the fear I would break and everything I’d worked so hard to cover up with fancy
rhinestone mustangs would gallop forth in all its rawness to be ripped apart.
Time waits for the first of us to speak, then opens up a city hydrant.  That’s
when our language disappears, and all we hear is the resonance of laughter.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Homero Manzi, Lucio Demare - Malena and its relationship to the poem Harassed.



I wrote the poem below this tango. Harassed, because I woke up humming this song for two days in a row.  I guess that when a poem wants to be written it will do just about anything to show its strength.


Sergio

Monday, August 23, 2010

Harassed


Harassed


what I want to be is
thread mark
live coal

a distinct aptitude
the hawfinch song with
a hawk-owl tail

in short
it is a different offering
hounding my heart

he is a well built
panic room

the minimal significance 
of a phonetic expression
on the tongue

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Last Stop


Last Stop


that my worst enemy
not be the barbarian’s footservant’s verse
or his easy-going memory

that I may choose
a tougher skin for my errant legs,
not one that collapses in a galloping fire

that my words come from a recognizable palace
furnished with truth, joy, and pain

that the most embellished portrait
keep me alive at the last stop of the Orient Express

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Take the Blank Page


Take the Blank Page



to the cacophony of other poets
the ones that mock my images
that other me making fun of me
whispering: take-the-blank-page
and make it your home
wheel it through life
after all, we are that ram
that keeps the balance
on the low end of the blank page
the gun, the seed of the old gender
that forbids all unauthorized transportation
of cum fallen in the activity of love,
the inferno that genetically manipulates
the bent germ from the juice of war.

Friday, August 20, 2010

Nana Mouskouri - Soledad (Spanish Version)

Chavela Vargas - Paloma Negra: This is my favorite Ranchera, and nobody sings it lkike Chavela

Joaquin Sabina Nos sobran los motivos

Penance


Penance


A lizard bit a spider 
in your lumberjack’s
tool shed. 

I cried watching it rot
like a dead, dry trunk.

Today it rained, you clamped 
the memories of everything 
we’d built together trying 
hard to make me smile.

The fragrance of the moon
is profoundly asleep,
but the sun is awake.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

These fabricated lines


These fabricated lines


are the tuffs of what I’ve never said
out loud, the authentic celestial kicking
up of heels in homoerotic retinues.

They pile on wherever mahogany curves
like a hand classifying the erections  
of retired gay gigolos.  Ones from a different

era, because the ones today are christened
Jesus la Muerte, Jesus the bling is coming out your ass,
Jesus don’t suck my face, I blow but only kiss real women.

And it’s because lately I’ve been drowning
in an ebb of blood and I want to leave a written declaration
proving the existence of my ink and paper unicorn

so that you know I came
from a different era.  One where a kiss
never imitated death, or money.  We were just two bodies,
two men swimming into open sea.

Estas líneas fabricadas: Estas linhas feitas


Estas líneas fabricadas


son el penacho de lo que nunca digo
en voz alta, el autentico jaraneo celestial
en comparsas homoeróticas. 

Se amontonan dondequiera corva la caoba
como la mano que clasifica erecciones
de bugarrónes retirados.  Los de otro tiempo,

porque los de ahora se llaman Jesús la muerte,
Jose el bling me brota por el culo,
Juan no me chupes los labios que no soy gay. 

Y es que últimamente me ahogo
en una marea de mentiras y quiero mostrarles
a mi unicornio de tinta y papel

para que sepan que yo fui
de aquella época donde el beso no imitaba
a la muerte, ni cobraba un minimun charge.  Éramos dos cuerpos,
dos hombre queriendo meterse mar adentro.









Estas linhas feitas


são da pena do que nunca dizer
em voz alta, o "jaraneo" celestial real
en comparsas homoeróticas.

Eles multidão de mogno em toda parte curvada
como a mão que classifica ereção
de bugarron aposentado. O outro momento,

porque agora Jesus chamado morte
bling Jesus ergue-se o burro,
Jesus não me chupar os lábios que eu não sou gay.

E ultimamente eu me afogo
em uma maré de sangue e eu quero mostrar
minha tinta e papel unicórnio

saber que eu era
daqueles tempos em que o beijo não imitar
morte, ou o dinheiro. Éramos dois corpos,
dois homens tentando chegar ao mar
.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Antonio’s Rape




Antonio’s Rape

He grew old covered by the caña leaves under the hammock bridge in his home town.  A leaf storm alerted a neighbor who called the police, who called his grandmother, who refused to walk that Via Crusi and sent her only daughter strong enough to deal with la hojarasca.  Twenty cents and the weight of the man’s body sucked his breath out. His shorts were down to his knees, ass still sticky, memories gone.

- It's been a week since Miguel's been fixing to poach around here.
- You be careful with that man, you hear. Do not get near him.
- Why auntie? Who is he? What's he look like?
- Fuck, you don't get near him because I say so.
- Don't ask a fucking thing you little brat. Why is this happening?
- Look at the way you dress him. He looks like a god-damn sissy.
- Do not leave him alone in the house.
- Yeah, who the hell is going to be watching here, you? All of us work.
- Look hear you little bastard, if I have to give
  your mother any bad news I swear ...
  What?  NO YOU MAY NOT GO TO BED, and she smacked him.
- You want me to kill myself?

Nevertheless, he ventured too far from his shadow on his bike. Now, death sprawls on his dresser like a cold headless chicken. He travels to other galaxies, forgets to take chestnuts seeds he collected for the journey.

He broke his spectacles at the hospital (didn’t want to see people behind the open windows when the doctor churned his ass for sperm with a swab).  Did anyone ask if that was what he wanted?  Did anyone extend a hand, gave him a caress?  Did anyone remember his birthday?

Then off to court where no one asked him a thing so he started to dig graves, Miguel smiled and winked at him.   Narcissus bled and died from an incision in his ass.  But he just walked to the bathroom, crawled into a corner and found himself in a hypnotic place he would later call Shangri-La.  After all, he was barely ten.

Well, the problem is theoretically solved.  Yesterday I talked to my psychiatrist and we decided on how it is that I need to medicate myself before I go into a hospital.  He also suggested it is time for me to make arrangements to leave Puerto Rico, something I have been wanting to do for a long time now.  He says a move within the next two years will be a smart move.  So I need to start looking for a community where I might have access to good benefits as an elderly person.  A good health plan and living arrangement.  I am already trying to save for this possibility.  Things are going to get pretty bad in Puerto Rico and it is going to take a long time before they get any better.  So to all my dear friends in all those artistic communities.  I am letting you know I am on my way back to the mainland.  It might take another year or so but the return is inevitable.

Sergio 

Paraguas


Paraguas


de cola erecta y rótulos
en cavidades erógenas
exigen cerrojos de ébano
y marfil, postre de códigos:
alcachofas que nos esperan
al borde del abismo sicalíptico
banquete de relojes donde
ha de medirse todo,
los centímetros, el espesor
la agudeza de gritos, la trans-
piración, los suspiro, el mela-o
que se corre por mis
mejillas al decir:
lo quiero adentro

completitito.

Poesia Contemporanea Africana.mpg

Yevgeny Yevtushenko - Parte IV

Monday, August 16, 2010

Envy

The wind brought us close to butterflies and yellow maples.  We danced, read each other’s memoirs, hung the pictures of who we wanted to be in front of our bed and went to sleep.  We woke and said: That is who I want to be.

rejection, the
penumbra of voices
that differ

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Solo el Rumor: dedicado a VICTOR FOWLER, poeta Cubano


Solo el Rumor

¿Oye alguien mi canción?
José Lezama Lima



Yo que no he visto la cordura
ni al perro siberiano pasearse con su recua
entre las nieves blancas,
y que tampoco aprecio el silencio invernal del crepúsculo
ni el sonido de osos rebuscando entre mis víveres.



Me pregunto: ¿Alguien vendrá
a poner su mano por la mía sobre el picador,
o su firma en el papel
que reclama todo lo que me han robado
en mi viaje por la vida?



Yo no he visto la ternura
tampoco siento excitación al observar al niño comer
de las manos protegidas de su madre.
Solo el rumor de lejanas ciudades donde el invierno
dura más que el verano acelera el ritmo de mi sangre.
Porque ese frio si es mío.



Yo que no he visto nunca la cordura
he jugado con el agua y la nieve,
que son la misma cosa.
Los he amarrado entre mis piernas
como se amarra a un amante.
Le he dado forma con mis manos
como se le da forma al pretencioso amor.



Yo que estoy harto de escuchar a los lobos
y dormir bajo los sauces ya no tiemblo cuando tiran
mi puerta para llevarme a donde ni el agua, ni la nieve existen.
¿Entienden?   No son más que una corta visita
a la sala de llanto de un hospital psiquiátrico
para impresionar al animal que duerme.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Seva City: Ciudad Seva



Seva City


Bloody, bitter fingerprint
fluttering like crazy as it runs by
a melancholic echo trapped inside
seashells for relief.


They are misaligned birds,
men in tri-color suits waiting
for the foam and the quetzal.


Space becomes narrower,
and our city collapses.


Eventually we will open fire
on this cascade of sparrows
hiding in the polls of the blind.




Ciudad Seva




Sangrienta huella
de amargura aletea
como loca
al recorrer el eco
melancólico
del desahogo
atrapado
en las caracolas



Son pájaros desaliñados,
señores tri-colores
esperando a la espuma
y al quetzal
mientras la ciudad
se derrumba
y el espacio se hace
más angosto.



Tarde o temprano abrirás fuego,
del todo al todo,
contra esa cascada de pajarracos
que se esconden
en las urnas de los ciegos

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