It was today
that I decided
to scratch the sky,
to turn the leaves
of the clouds,
to learn the language
of the tiny suns;
yes today I deposit
diamonds of silent voice
inside the cups of galaxies;
I want to pinch
the catastrophe of the heavens
and have all the nights
dance around my sudden life
like fierce nebulae of
nothings and everythings.
I see a man praying.
He’s begging, worshiping,
believing. I see a man that wants
to disappear from this world of weight;
I see a man that pleads to blend,
to unite, to be one with the absolute
meaninglessness. I see a man praying
inside a Hindu temple – speaking words
that only he hears and yet he is able
to convert this sight of flesh to fragrance,
from bone to beatitude, from blood to blossom.
I see a man waving to his idol and I keep walking
towards the heart of the jungle.
The covers of privacy are ripped off; the pages of the book of life shiver in the warm wind. One does not find chapters or divisions in this book. All is intermingled in one long narrative. The truth is exposed in the streets. It wears no make-up, it does not disguise its raw semblance. People wear their hearts as an unpolished jewel over their chests. There in the streets you read the secret print of every soul. There – out there: misery, happiness, poverty, tradition, greed, compassion, goats, cows, ox, worship, tears, dirt, smoke, smiles, sun, phalli, disease, deformity, piercings, struggle, suffering, patience, motherhood; and above all, silence untouched by the honks, guffaws, the shitting, screaming, the suffering. A mysterious kind of suffering everyone seems to bear peacefully. This is INDIA. Where life is not speculation, postponement, or expectation. It is an open book, where every act or event happens simultaneously, where the cruelty of fate and arbitrariness of poverty is somehow justified in their placid and stoic faces. In this story one must undress from the cryptic paraphernalia of self-hood; one must descend as an open wound into the balsam of reality. – this is INDIA.
I wanted mystery.
Huge black eyes
drawn to a mystic smoke.
The electricity of the rock.
The mantra of the beast.
I wanted to be crushed
and cursed by the flames of misery.
I come to India to hunt
for the invisible possibility.
To cease traveling in a vehicle of thought-
to walk on the scorching embers of intuition.
I wanted to drown in a river and resurface
as an absolute beginner.
I came and saw the mystery.
I came to see the truth
that there is no truth,
written in the eternal language
of their sacred eyes.
I came to India to tie all the threads
of incense around my restless soul.
Here I am.
I’m here missing
the warm circulation
of your thoughts.
But I have to report
that my cock is heavy
with hot nostalgia.
Its destiny was to sleep
between orgasms, to drip
songs over your diaphanous
breasts. Even when the heat
is gone, the chimney’s last
strand of light will have
the flavor of a dream,
destined to become smoke
and whisper, yea far beyond
the annals of our desire.
Far beyond the flannel
blanket that kept us webbed
to a hymn of hums.
no paro de sudar
comas, melones y los brillos
tremendos de la materia;
sudo arcos sobre meteoritos
todos mis miembros
tienen ritmo de artillería,
sudo la gelatina del marfil
los polos nortes ruedan finos
y divididos por mis tobillos
sudo un trance de tardes y edificios
sudo el temblor de la melodía;
ay como me canso de agacharme
para recoger las cataratas
que son mi vestido de fuego,
sudo un pasillo al destino
que se abre como un hongo,
perspiro grandes olas que revientan
contra la punzante noche;
no paro de sudar gotas de distancia
las cavernas redondas de la luz
y todos el caos inundado
con el entero sudor de mis ojos.
what it is to crave a glass of water
or to sip a kiss;
to be so reckless as to flood
the heart because it is a crater of chalk
and you’re tired of its empty dusty frame.
I don’t remember what
kind of day it was.
Full of sun with
musky winds, dark with
impalpable clouds, perhaps
flat and drunk in sapphire.
I don’t care what kind of day
it was; a day to forget like all
the rest had I not begun to count
the breaths I’ve taken in despair.
I began stooping like an imbecile twig
that bends with every paddle of the wind
as if an essence had broken into milliard
tiny mirrors on the sidewalk, and I had
to count and sew them back into a remembrance.
I plead for the pallid crust of light that envelopes me
like a bulky perfume to melt into a song of shadow
or even for a single mindless mote of dust
to land catastrophically on me and pierce
this ferrous mold, I want to watch my holy skin
fall away and leave a naked and unwashed soul
standing erect like a pagan odalisque.
But don’t show her mercy, kick her out
of this world drama, let her run barefoot
back to her incomprehensible origin.
It could have been a year ago, while getting on
a bus that I conceived of grabbing silence
by its throat and squeezing out a peep;
I had been so innocently prone to believing
that the world was a gigantic bird suffocating
me with its kaleidoscopic feathers but
now I feel at home because suffering
sets as a sun behind the panorama of knowledge
and even if it is reborn every day I dream
at night of being a thin echo of fiction.