Thursday, March 31, 2016

First NaPoWriMo entry:

Someone     asked me for an Edelweiss from Rilke
and suddenly the Poems              written by a younger me
returned, as did the Notebooks                that caused me such heartache,
the Elegies               with the terrible but necessary angel of beauty,
the Sonnets and in them another           Flower whose name I can’t remember,
the Diary       written on the shores of the Rhine,
So many Hours,      so many images, so many winds from childhood,
so many Places       that once were mine
in The Distant Viper, my total nearness.

It is written against all innocence

It is written against all innocence
against the ditsy wind around my house
the empty word games
the aesthetics of a Viennese waltz.
It is written by opening the veins
until the cry is silenced.

- NaPoWriMo #3

Other farewells in the songs of Gloria Gaynor

His name was Stephen.
His figure was a ripe peach,
a night branch full of stars,
a flock of birds overflying
the fragrant eucalyptus
in the schoolyard. Something
inside me shouts in protest:
at first I was afraid,
I was petrified…
And I bleed and I curl up
whenever he threatens with leaving
on the train to oblivion.

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

cabalgó tanka en espanol

sobre los hombros
del otoño—
abrígame las cienes con la luz
de éste último verano 

one more tanka

I am the child
riding on the shoulders
of autumn—
shelter me with the light
of last summer's leaves

dwell Haiku

dwelling inside this midnight exile I am myself a beast

In a country between life and death

In a country between life and death

it's really strange
that thing about our sexes
but every time I'd enter you
I'd hear a large flock of birds
inside your forest

and our sexes would resurrect
like butterflies dazzled by fire
in a country between life and death
where economics is a science

small investors of the soul
are bamboozled on Wall Street
Tenderness salaries are low
and injustice in the World Market
of Love is persistent

...I lift my soul to my nose
to feel your perfume
birds glide out of your sex
no, further than that
they come out of everything you value
everything you give.

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

Sobre tu abdomen

Sobre tu abdomen

flor enmohecida
tenme por amigo del águila
que emprende vuelo
hacia el túnel de Paris
y se desploma en tus manos

salpicados de violines
al compás del amor
el fuego nos cubre
estallan los cuerpos
sin consumir sus mechas

ay, mi crepúsculo
acostado sobre el horizonte
de  mi costado
me voy a matar para pasar
la muerte tumbado sobre tu abdomen 

cuando muere la luz

cuando muere la luz
muere también la aurora
por qué cuando pisas del otro lado
ya no pisas como antes
y el otro lado se convierte en mito
adonde mis manos
encontraron las tuyas
en oración abrigada
de fragmentos de pájaros
goteando agua
sobre el sueño
el torrente que nos arrastra
hacia la luz meridional
que llevamos en el medio
de nuestra propia luz

Tembló el mar

Tembló el mar
lo descubrí
en el nombre de 
asociación obligada
por mi psiquiatra
una vez se había producido
el asesinato.
Esperé a ver qué clase
de mariposa salía de mi pecho
antes de pronunciar
mis últimas palabras
se verán las caras
de aquellos que tienen un corazón
lleno de estrellas

He’s there, hidden in his rooms

He’s there, hidden in his rooms.
I know his prehistoric gestures
the beauty of his furniture
the perfume floating on his couch.
His anger
occasionally shatters some of the porcelain
ferrets around the red flowers
nervously crinkling them.
Their beauty provoke him.
He rips and throws them away.
Canopies fall on the bed.
He parades feverishly around the rooms
Nothing satiates him.
He lights up the fireplace
admonishes the maid
and ultimately frightening, with trembling snout,
he throws himself on the sofa.
Opens his legs
caresses his nipples
swaying hips
and roars with the spasm

Monday, March 28, 2016



Babel is blind. He has no eyes
so he touches, rubs
his fingers over the words
of men that in the terror
of their silence know there's a secret.

Babel’s pleasure is fast and hard,
it comes from far away
and rumbles inside my heart
with the noisy jolt
of a sleepwalking volcano.

It drags an ancient mud.
There are broken bird feathers
in its pubic hair.


insomnia, a piece of man,
an aquarium full of hissing snakes,
and I’m alone, naked
on the bed sheet 
imitating zodiac signs.



I dreamed about you,
you were just like you were,
no slip-ups in your voice,
motionless shadows for arms,
and statuesque genitals.
You copied yourself, you were nothing
but the foam of your own life.

I felt you were deified verse
in my dream. My sadness did not fit
the bottom of my pain, and so I went
to stain the night in purple.

The noise your legs made
could have awakened a pond,
the hours that never went beyond
bloodletting, the silence of many windows.
Tenderness wept from one
of your nipples to the other.

Last night I dreamed about you
and I couldn’t tell you my secret
—because love is a magnificent apple tree
with copper fruits wrapped in skin
made from the intelligence of leaves
that recall the future, and roots
like arms mired in the snows of sainthood—
even my fingers couldn’t find you
in your perfection. My very presence
would be violent, so violent 
I'd fill you with wonder.

Sunday, March 27, 2016

You come at night with the fabulous smoke of your black hair

You come at night with the fabulous smoke of your black hair

trees and trees of sorrow
my body catches fire and quivers
the eternal is immobile
stones thrown into the windstorm
tend to become unique
oh tree, my heart parts
from a faraway place
to reach your brow
with nocturnal beasts in its eyes
and blocks that fall from its hands
you immerse me
in the phosphorescent sea
where my being comes to life
I roll down the slope of your body
to your feet
twin constellations
in this earthly night
where we read the history
of the world

the bitterness

the bitterness
the white corals
of your eyes
the scintillating blows
to your temples
the wave that erases
the sparkle in your eyes
the tapestry
the putrid flower
the delicate aroma
of your armpits
the equestrian turtle
of your fingers
sailing across my skin

Saturday, March 26, 2016

el agua lenta

el agua lenta
los caminos ligeros
accidentes suspendidos
en el aire
el tiempo se anuda
para echar raíces
sobre nuestros cuerpos desnudos
y yo alisaré tus pelos
hasta llegar a tu boca

Love Letter to an Imaginary Indian Lover

Love Letter to an Imaginary Indian Lover
March 26, 2016

that intimate place
between your legs
—my black obsidian god
with a diamond head—
that drags and throws me
into the sea of assumptions
my beautiful night demon
with implacable testicles
of a tiger whose semen—
running ember
from which the Milky Way
proceeds— fills me
like a well of light

I will never forget you yet in vain
do I now demand
the thirst of fire
before the twisted landscape
of my life

A teenage love poem

A teenage love poem
To those who gave me their love in return for very little

I love you because you write poetry on the urgent edges
of your empty room. Because you've attached verbs to the pain
that invades you and even when you can't remember I’m Sergio
it's me who accompanies you through the travesty of names.
And because you say, you’re beautiful, and leave with the dawn.

I love you because you took me to the river
and the flight of birds that nest in the water. You place your hand
on my shoulder to give me the encouragement I sometimes lose.

Because you stare me down
and wink your eyes to make me follow,
you inspire,
and welcome me, sustain
me in the air when I'm flying aimlessly
or when I've lost my bearing.

Thursday, March 24, 2016

the gap tanka

your body, the gap
through which the crystals
of dreams usher forth...
(aimless women)
never to return to Ithaca

I am Thersites somonka

I am Thersites
crushed by your arm,
the brutal weight 
of your horses
I 'm the one who loves you

you are Achilles
the beautiful loser, &
whether you like it or not
my world looks like 
an almond, a date, a guava.

starting the day with a haiku

nesting on a blue bow skylight cardboard buterflies

Wednesday, March 23, 2016

the distance which lies between the branches

the distance which lies between the branches

with furrows on my face
I've put on my mourning apron.
there is an empty bench
where I sit and die a little
in front of the house.
people walk by.
I don't explain anything to you.
a different death
in the middle of the street.

I leaf through the obituaries
and the clouds

you look at me with fear,
(my heart starts to slide down
the gentle slope of your black hair.)

it rained because I needed it to rain,
and because you wanted
you gaze at me through the mirror.
night came because I wanted it to come.
and I looked into your eyes,
and I kissed your childlike hands,
and prepared your clothes, remember?
but you were afraid.
a sullen and grim fear.
a fear of watches.
remember, it’s all true.

I've not given up on either love or wound.

we never measure the distance
which lies between the branches of the blooming dragon tree
or remove dirt,
or irrigate the cornfields,
or paint windows,
or collect water in transparent buckets.
the cold never fills the well
with green blackberry.
your mouth never
leaves the taste of almonds
on my lips.



I am afraid, that's right,
afraid of getting tangled in the barbwires of a dream
afraid of your arms shaped like golden bars.
Remember what other winters have meant to you:
the sea,
ships arriving without a single casualty, 
the wind,
remember the wind, my love, softening the corners.

Puerto Rico - My Bankrupt Island

Puerto Rico-My Bankrupt Island

You’ve imagined, smiled, waited so long to meet me that you’re tired.

Don’t ask for an explanation.
Don’t take away the idea that I have, even when it’s vague.
Please, don’t test me, on firm ground (you’d shove me aside).

Sometimes, there’s nothing left of you but an illustration, a map.
If and when you arrive, you approach, you think it’s alright, but it’s something else, something totally different, a hallucination.

You've got magnitude and heat.

But you’re the other side
of the coin.

haiku en espanol

tu caricia aquel día

de marzo



you were my sea urchin  
my turtledove
but your name was also Acacia
my Cuban prostitute
my día tras día tras día
the absurdity of a loveless morning
yes, you have so many names I can’t single you out as a single person
my Juno
my next trick
but everything is such a lost cause
that it really doesn’t matter what I call you
the bathroom mirrors are all foggy
my bear with a half beard
my fifteen past seven
my hundred petal lotus



I've never had a job
where I could not go to Paris, have a serene day, and get married
where writing a poem was like committing suicide at the sight of your large penis
where you’ve said it yourself: I am not what I am or what I'm not
where literature is lived rather than studied and the word "subject-matter" is                 synonymous of "mystery"
where every aggression is a man looking for a flag
where there’s no difference between the ordinary and extraordinary sexual encounters on the beach of existence
where announcing me dumb at birth was actually a blessing, I stood by it for so many years that it started to feel like my soul

Tuesday, March 22, 2016

this is

this is
the land
where Indian tribes
embalm carnations
the day's tremulous ink
the red hot rose
the annals
of the jungle

you stretch out
softer than the memory of a blind man
you find me
and become the rough city
that seals my mouth
you explore time like alcohol
those orphan airs
you exhale,
arise from doubts

my only fortune
the booty torn from fear

flor de frío

flor de frío
para Carlos, que ya no me llama

dañada luz 
de mis huellas
llena de voces sucias
la parte más negra
de mis mentiras
nadie conoce
la leyenda hueca
de mi piel
el lugar del crimen
mi nostalgia
la flor maldita que sembraste
en mis textos
la serpiente intima
de tus palabras
tu veneno de sombra
el insomnio
que todavía me provoca tu voz
tus labios
el moriviví de tus manos
al despedirnos
en los días lluviosos
y es que prefiero no buscarte
aunque empeore mi vida
y la noche me trague
prefiero acostarme junto a la niebla
de tu cuerpo esperando
tal vez
a que nos tomen un retrato
retrato en noches de locura
mis ojos húmedos
tus ojos resecos
tus piernas débiles
entre mis piernas invisibles
te sobraste mucho más de lo que piensas
durante días huracanados
eras mi vida
el bisturí para partir la esperma seca
de nuestros cuerpos
y no eras nada
si no eras todas mis mañanas 

it's cold tanka

it's cold
and I want to be
and live south
of a love song

I die and wake tanka

I die and wake
in the secret fissures
of your hand…
the echo
of a musical note

and yet another haiku

mimosa pudica -
your tender touch 
that day in March

yet another haiku

your voice 
the bell 
of my senses
my fog

another haiku

tangled in memories moss covered walls


in beautiful slogans 
your smile

I squirm tanka

Image Sun & Moon - by Dorina Costras

I squirm
between moons
and suns
unrolling time with fear
or brashness 

Monday, March 21, 2016

make way tanka

make way
for the man who
does not fear
the tempests of disdain,
that vintage wine of love

I reconstruct my day tanka

I reconstruct my day
from a fragment of light—
i am the man
who came to live here
with his fires

the fact is tanka

the fact is
even when I sleep
you are
the magnetic circle
of my sea surf

my body tanka

my body
the mansion of sunsets
of the seas
disappearing gull on a wire

let me cover your sex tanka

let me cover
your sex with mango juice
and strawberries...
the hidden wine of your heart
on my lips

your legs
sweet pomegranate...
let me reap 
the fruits of your sweat
and swallow your peaches

I love younger men tanka

I love
younger men
air jockeys
living in university corridors
urban peace planners

wrapped in beautiful slogans tanka

in beautiful slogans
my smile
challenges scarcity
and wipes away tears

hours in a vacuum tanka

hours in a vacuum...
who can predict 
the future
when we've forgotten
each other’s names

Sunday, March 20, 2016

what is naked tanka

what is naked
and lives in the twilight
like a specter…
silence fills me,
an autumn butterfly


what is naked
and lives in the twilight's
silence within me--
a specter that fills
like an autumn butterfly


what is naked
and lives in the twilight
like a specter…
the silence that fills me
like an autumn butterfly

Wednesday, March 16, 2016

we cuddled tanka

we cuddled
in each other’s warmth…
around us melts
except our feelings

Thursday, March 10, 2016

on a night train to Connecticut tanka

on a night train
to Connecticut, the homeless
sitting by a campfire—
gods and buddhas
crying at their feet

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