I begin to salivate
with the thought of dedicating
an entire life to poetry,
a voracious appetite to eat
the great voids of nature and spirit;
that while indigent
I can still satiate mi hunger
with the stillness of the mountains
and the spring of the sky
that runs sweet
night and day.
Al centro
no le cabe
nada
aun así
se impregna de tristeza;
el perímetro
viene y va
inútil como una mosca
que recoge partículas
de mierda
en sus aleatorios viajes
en un campo;
la periferia un sinfín
y el centro oculto
bajo la piel de la lágrima.
I imagine a day
when young rose vowels
uttered from my mouth
brimming with the perfume of laughter
that joyous I’d be
still full of falsehood
but arms around strange folk
like they’d be the secret
truth of the age, we’d sing
and sit like tired twigs
leaning on the inside of a whirlpool whose
destination does not amount to too much
but neither does the apprehension of it
so that day comes
my pen on the edge of the table
my pipe curling arrows of smoke
but truly my eyes fixed on
clouds with no purpose
desde impregnado
en memoria caen las mocas
y nunca escapan,
como nada nos pertenece
ni el recuerdo mareado
ni la brutal acción,
viendo el cielo
soy pantano de negro equilibrio;
de los ojos salen manos de un infeliz
jalando las cadenas del siglo
con cal del arte
sangre e indicio –
solo espacio ubicuo sin orden ni razón
mejor adiós adiós
ahí
espesa nada.
If there were something
to unify
I’d build a bridge
between partial reality
and the wholeness of nirvana;
had there been
something to rescue
I’d make an ark
from the planks of essence,
letting in, one by one, the species
of the invisible –
if there were something
with purpose
I’d carry it on my shoulders
till I could set it free
in a new meadow of illusion; –
if only there
were there something
other than me
around here.
a dormir
fingido ser,
en la noche
se untan los vacíos
sobre el colocho del alma,
tráguese la
existencia como
vino sencillo
de uvas lentas
e inconscientes.
what was that?
the color of the wind
or the order of the lips,
my hand in contortion
touching the intangible surface
of fiction;
I left the building
out
there
the night pinching the street
like a hungry jaw
the naked trees
as real as
the limbs of insects,
I wanted to remain
prostrated
on the sidewalk
like the dim casting glare
of the streetlamp,
nameless
in that minute
with all the beauty
of fact –
no longer possibility
but plain actuality,
a happy yellow leaf
in its autumnal decay
enduring its
tiny epoch
of death.
I came for the evening
the portico
and the shade of cathedrals
—-
a dialogue
with a candle
and
the riddle of smoke
—-
a flicker
the effortless certainly
that I’ll never
wake up from the ambiguous
—-
I came for the rust
and the leaves of autumn
perhaps
Beyond Language 
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