Sunday, May 29, 2016

Immense Magnolia Petal



Immense Magnolia Petal


I thought death was one more way of being
and not the other side of stones
I looked for the smile of my childhood under your face
and found your mother’s mourning glove
your words fell like marbles down the stairs of silence
to the foot of my soul
mummified by your gesture
earth opened to swallowed dawn birds
and a tide of fear covered you
death settled in the pores of day
and I, undaunted watchman,
witnessed the disintegration of the universe

Black on Black




Black on Black


This is the Panamanian nymph
the one printing her shape
on my retina
for a second

she leaves
an homeopathic drop
of luck in the waters
of my trembling body

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Dry Portrait of Frida Kahlo



Dry Portrait of Frida Kahlo


From eyebrow to jail bars
I am crowned with a rail of thorns
this vertebral column hell of skulls agonizes me                    
this severed placenta slavery feeds me            
the orphanage pushing my gut aborts and aborts me
I am a motherless ghost
my dry udders drip rusted curds
punishment for a castrated uterus
Oh how I limp in my portraits


Every sterile night, I un-nurse the fetuses in the bones of my bed
and my eyes bleed drops of mirrors that speak to me
and the twisted breath of daily tragedy nails me
and I am hidden in my Nana, I breastfeed shadows
with the same loneliness that night pours inside me

and I paint myself without looking

Meeting Up with Lorca



Meeting Up with Lorca


Birds fled from me
at four in the afternoon.

Serene birds,
slow birds
fled from me

leaving their wings in my breast

at four in the afternoon.

Stain Glass Windows



Stain Glass Windows


You undress
as if you were opening
a chest full of jewels

the best thing
is your shine
little hues of a black cat

torsos broaden
on the white bed sheet

we do not do circus acts

something takes me
to your bitter butterflies
and I stay there

I clean wing to wing

the wind adheres
to this victory

I take off my clothes
give you the gesture
bestowed
on all fruits

we are not beast
we are stain-glass windows
and we let the light
pass through

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Bed and Mesa




Bed and Mesa


They were not paper boats
on the bed,

only books,
stars above the sky
of the —inverted—
mattress 

Chess



Chess


Because then I’m just a little boy,
birth and death
have always been the dance,
the true meaning of the game is in life,
the true meaning of life is in the game.

Monday, May 23, 2016

Enunciations



Enunciations


In the swift days of my life,
the feet of the beast
described by Daniel in his Book,
500 years and they still failed
to set iron and miry clay,
but the sword with which they imposed
the siege had plunged the homeland
into misery. Not much ever happened,
Amen! to business, the beautiful
alliterations of brokerages. 170, 000 beheaded.
Life in the country was commendable,
anyone could carry a flag and brandish stories.

Getting into the economic brutality of kings
and Orthodox Jews took into account
a healthy economy,
at least that’s what the papers said,
so life in the pipe-dream-country
started at 6am with breakfast,
take the kids to school, then keep
your buttocks behind a desk,
behind a wrench, behind a broom,
behind oneself, to honor the hours
that would allow the boss to have
his piña colada anywhere he had a world.

Now the auxiliary realm of greed
broadcasted live
strange numerals 
as if panic could only get tangled
in a soccer ball— what a GOAL…
It made the soccer player’s super-fuck their mothers
in front of an iridescent crowd,
and papa Noah took off a young girl’s panties
he was filming.  He was going to leave good money
in the porn outlets.

Ah, Rebeca Linares’s nostalgic ass
on all fours
stuffing a huge black dick in her butt,
and songs that seemed like the best
sung by the Rolling Stones.
56,000 women torched,
as if they had been welded
to death with argon gas,
but they were walking side by side
with the head honchos of the opium fields
of Afghanistan, the oil fields of Iraq,
the unused and unusual fields of Mars
put in the sky to be reforested.
Those were not days of grief and nostalgia
under radioactive clouds.





Syria 2016




Syria 2016


Today I continue to be sad
as if I had died 
looking at the fungi of depleted uranium
spreading through the bodies of children
while I listen to Tartini
as if he were a memorable man.
Today I continue to be barefoot
on my city’s streets
without friends, and no one
to wait for me at home.
My loneliness is so deep
that I sit down and listen to birdsong,
and no longer want to be here.
There’s nothing removing my annoyance,
nothing allowing me to relive my love.





Sunday, May 22, 2016

Trump Midas



Trump Midas


There was no water
in Jersey City
but Trump Midas
in his Olympic pool
was swimming
as if the water
in the city was all his.

After counting
the day’s earnings
he was happy
he had made
a million more,
and his businesses
made more poor.

Politicians
and businessmen praise me,
was what he’d say.
Great, I am a winner,
a total winner,
an unequivocal winner

Saturday, May 21, 2016

Medusa



Medusa


Medusa didn’t die
in the pantheon of mythologies,
she lives inside us with her ravenous eyes.
She has no gender or specific place,
she keeps growing in our body
like a terminal illness.
To find her all we need to do
is stare
into the face of cancer,
stare at the snakes that fall from our hair,
at the man who breaks like a child.

Poems to my Double



Poems to my Double


Years pass from me to you
like crow’s feet

my tears don’t stop
rolling down your cheeks

a breath separates
the mirror from the reflection

I opened his eyes
saw my darkness live

is there a boatman
to can carry light from end to end?

beyond me
you don’t exist

to exhale the ghost
is a task for the living

to drink memories through the eyes
is the purpose of the dead

split the bread of illusion
in my mouth


Wounded Babylon



Wounded Babylon


I love your confusion
the scrambled birds of your tongue
your simultaneous words
your Babel    your Delphi
Sibyl of enemy voice

I love it when you say night and it is dawn
when you say I am and it is the wind

I love your wounded Babylon
the misunderstanding that forces you
to make up a fable




Friday, May 20, 2016

Night in the City



Night in the City


Do you refuse to accept that love was here
imagining birds, unearthing ruins?
Rain, rain and music are black in these streets
crowded with crucified people that walk,
the dying that work,
unburied corpses clapping and smiling.
Perhaps there still remains in this space
of shattered dreams, mashed dreams,
another crazy dreamer repeating:
light is close, light is near.
But, as in other times, only a cold and empty
silence answers,
a festive, blind hustle and bustle
of these dead remains,
the perfectly dead               dead.
Only a sour, metallic drop of night can be heard,
an immense black sheet of iron.



Thursday, May 19, 2016

To Ramona - Bob Dylan - (5/7/65) Bootleg

Ramona Part 3



Ramona Part 3


but it grieves my heart, love
to see you tryin’ to be a part of
a world that just don’t exist
Bob Dylan, To Ramona

I’ll call
til the doors of your fortified city,
with inviolate statutes,
adopt me as inhabitant
of the life that unfolds within you
identical to the rain of silence
over your head
I’ll permeate you gradually
until I am smoke in your voice.




Ramona, part 2



Ramona, part 2

though breathlike, get deathlike at times
and there's no use in tryin'
to deal with the dyin'
though I cannot explain that in lines.
Bob Dylan, To Ramona


I am what you are
I look through your eyes
I walk because of your feet
I get up no weight on you
and I immerse myself in your waters.
I know the specific meaning
you have given your view
of the universe. I am your meridian
laughter, your arms floating in the air,
your fingers de-kernelling a time
composed of            dawn to night.
I am your       without a body.
Your story is the same as mine,
from childhood I feel through your spores
with absent eyes.


Wednesday, May 18, 2016

Ramona



Ramona
Ramona, come closer
Shut softly your watery eyes
The pangs of your sadness
Will pass as your senses will rise
Bob Dylan, To Ramona


When night ashes spill
on your pupils,
the same as in a defenseless city,
knotting your silence,
you don’t tell me anything.
Moss also grows on my lips.
We contemplate each other
as if our bodies didn’t exist.

I come to your room
with a confusion of mouth
and a capsizing of manhood.
I bring my daily offering,
a mound of absence
cast in copper memories.

This is a Dream



This is a Dream


Do not fear hit men
coming with air guns
under the rain.
Do not ache
for victims
at the corner waiting.
Do not worry,
the gods of human sacrifice
are dead.
This is a dream.
When you wake,
there will be no assassins,
only the rain
falling on an empty street.

Little Oedipus - A true story



Little Oedipus


It was early morning,
the mother woke up the youngster
and between supplications, and prayers
to the god of earthquakes.
She dug her fingers into the sockets
of the little boys eyes

then opened the door
of the squalid household
and cast the little Oedipus,
with blood dripping down his face,
to grope about the paths of earth
announcing the end of the world.

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

For Insomnia



For Insomnia


night…
in the window
your body rains

a butterfly
spins and spins
in that squall

night knows no roads…
the sparrow doesn’t recognize
where it has fallen

when nobody sees him
man walks out
on man

your body
and mine
a sweltering ghost

among the doors that open and close
one remains open,
the one painted blue by the wind



At someone’s feet



At someone’s feet


I will walk with you in the sun and wind
rummage in life’s dumpsters
I lie at your feet
like a shadow
like a dog

Yesterdays



Yesterdays


my yesterdays
fit in one hand

I carry my profits
in a bag full of holes

when I move I win
one place and lose another

presence and absence
are the same

all my yesterday’s fit
in one empty hand




Monday, May 16, 2016

The Eagles- DESPERADO-HD

Wetback of eternity


Wetback of eternity


I am                undocumented worker of eternity,
an illegal                   crossing the border of a dream.

My passport of existence has expired.
Without proper documentation                my bones are worthless.

I travel            night in a crowded truck without headlights.
I sleep in the backrooms of the law.

My American dream became
the hell of my exile.

He has come out of shadows, they point at me and say,
when I appear from the toilets of my job.

It doesn’t matter.  I celebrate like a wetback
the passage of wind in desert altars

and contemplate infinity in the place
where the twin towers stood.

Sunday, May 15, 2016

Ways of having an angel


Ways of having an angel


An angel is the spiritual bodyguard
that protects us from material,
supernatural enemies, and those
we engender with images,
words and dreams: he fights, at midnight,
in the middle of the street,
and in bed, against odious figures,
figures that we tend to love.

People say: an angel passed through here,
when there is silence among them,
united in one body: while our angels wait
they look at each other in the mirror
or stare out the window
at the long yellow afternoon.

Lovers say: an angel just walked by,
as if the presence of the desired one
had the body of absence,
as if it could perceive what had already happened,
and they knew they loved when they no longer love.

An angel passed, says the angel,
without seeing his own shadow in time,
without perceiving the longing
his words left within,
men of flesh and blood,
looking from the other side of the window,
drunk with love and death.

She’s got angel, they say
about the woman whose grace
cannot be measured, one cannot count
the light in her eyes, or calculate
the size of her smile, even less,
we cannot weigh her footprint
when she walks.

I’ve got angel, says the dying man
searching for a partner to lead him through
his personal abysms. I’ve got angel, says
the one that dies, at long last visible—the one
who guarded me in life. I have angel, I exclaim
when I raise my being unto his being,
as if we had always walked together.
He’s got angel, says another angel,
looking through the window
as we lose sight of each other
in the yellow afternoon.

Friday, May 13, 2016

A Time for Angels



A Time for Angels


And God said, let there be angel.
And the angel was made out of words.
And man said, let there be angel
made of inner words.
Let the angel be in the likeness of my spirit.
And God said, let every man have an angel
in his likeness up in heaven and when he dies
may they become one.
And man said, if God does not create the angel,
the imagination must create it,
because if there’s a gap between God and man
there can be no communication.
There must be an intermediary spirit
between sky and earth,
between the invisible and the visible,
between the spiritual and the material.
God said, man arrived late for the time of gods
and early for the time of beings,
the angel came on time for both.
Man said, the angel is the body joining
gods and beings, it is the bridge that joins
the stare to what is looked at.
God said, so men and angels understand
each other, angels on earth must speak
the languages of men, and when men dream
they must speak the language of angels.
Because there is an original language
understood by angels of all ages and all races
and it is made of poetry.
Man said, an angel knows when he is in front
of another angel, not by what is said and revealed
but by the light coming out of their eyes.
God said, angels cannot be seen with eyes,
because they are inside the eyes.
Man said, then, the angel we seek in the world
is within us, it is us?
God said, when man finds himself
let the angel be what is looked for in the world
because the body of both is made of interior words.
Man said, the angel that I see,
that does not see me, is the one I will be
when I die.
God said, let the angel of man live beyond man,
let it raise above its body and earn its real existence.
May the angel take the form that man wants to give it.
Man said, then, the angel has the body the imagination
gives it? The angel painted on my back, the angel
tattooed on my arms, will shield my back and will
protect my arms. One day it will be like myself.
And God said, the angel, in this time of darkness
that’s approaching, is a messenger of light.
Let the angel be the equal of man.
Because this is a time of angels.

Werewolf


Werewolf


I am werewolf,
I devour myself.

At dawn I cut fresno trees
where the moon settled.

At noon I burn pastures
where the deer run swift.

At dusk I go to the beach
to butcher turtles.

I climb mountains
to hunt the eagle.

What God created in six days,
I destroy in one.

I am the werewolf,
I devour myself.

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