new lands

Sphinx in Aarhus

           There are things
best left unsaid
lest the great sphinx
of the open mystery
laughs
at my foolishness
she knows
ultimately, life
is like the open sky
and words
are clouds I hold on to
to break my
                    fall.
 

Modern Poetry

empollar

Empollar_poeta

 La cordura
se me desamarró
como el cordón
del zapato
miraba el cielo
como un cráter
de lava oceánica
y me percaté
que esos cuatro o cinco pájaros
que se aterrizaron en la esquina
de un techo
conspiraban en su jolgorio
la conquista del mundo
su meticuloso plan para transformar
esta tierra en
un gran nido
hecho de tierra, agua, aire y fuego
y  estaría yo ahí
en el fondo del nicho
esperando una gran lombriz
que me aplastaría
como un huevo nulo
con nada
adentro.

 

 

Poesía Nihilista

arrived when born

Do I deserve existence
I disperse the line of the path
before me
I give up my actions
to become an agent of unguided motion
if solitude had coordinates
the universe would still be too small
the horizon swells inside me
twilight is cascading under lids
of two undeserving eyes
whatever I know decays
into the nameless
moment
precipitation of complexity
the deluge
of being human.

 

 

just like that

Language is not beautiful.
It is cruel, confused, sad.
This is how I start my novel.
In the streets, in inexplicable tears.
Too late to review what’s happened.
The cars rushing by, motion.
Great lives begin in doubt.
Heroic lives succumb in despair.
Anonymous lives like ours, we just die.
I begin my unorthodox survival,
by denying everything.
What are the boundaries of a chapter
when there are no categories?
Language is not a beauty.
It is raw, boom, slack.
This is how I start my novel.

polvo de diario

Exilio_viajando

tengo 28 años
y dejo una parcela de diario,
lo dejo plasmado
en mi exilio
en el viaje

en el cambio
que envuelve la verdad
como la noche abriga el silencio

dejo mi diario silencioso
como una postdata
a lo que el lenguaje
nunca pudo expresar

dejo una minúscula obra
de aventuras
perdida en el espiral
del tiempo
que no lleva
punto final.

 

 

sui generis

Nothingness Poetry

A portrait of nothingness –

the tininess in between the worlds

the invisible underlying cup

a blank canvas for the painted universe

absent undisturbed gulf

the sleep that dreams me

                  while I play hardball

                        with the junkies of pursuits.

 

Nihilistic Poetry