the philosophy of wood


The table
	no time for its
and absurd
chair leaning against
the table’s futile stance.

	I’m a pragmatic man
so I have no use for knowing

The table
	studies its own nature
by looking at its askew shade.
Chair, somberly
contemplating suicide
because it wants to remove
its painfully ingrown nails.
	Paradoxically they keep it alive,
	in form, in function. 

I have only one reality and the clarity of purpose. 

My furniture’s
is a trifling problem
in my busy condition. 

The table has begun questioning things. 
	It likes it when I leave Camus
	on its surface. 
I hear the creaky whisper, quoting:
	‘the human wooden heart has a tiresome tendency
	to label as fate only what crushes it.’

Absurdly, the chair stares at the modernity
of my modus operandi. 

I cannot be stopped to wonder. 
	Progress is my mission. 

The table is a stranger to itself.
	The chair competes 
 for my attention. 

I have appetites that the world
cannot satisfy.

Table is dissatisfied with its lucidity,
	through logic the chair has
arrived at the conclusion that
knowledge is a form of chaos.

I’m a man of the world in spite of everything. 

	In spite of poverty, war, injustice or
my furniture’s uncertainty and their long
episodes of incoherent silence.

Contemporary Poetry

este es mi testimonio


Este es mi testimonio,
como un recuerdo
atrapado en una esfera:
sus fronteras están bañadas de espejo.
Es una convulsión de esencia,
dentro de esta circunferencia.
Todo yace dentro
sin saber nada de lo que hay
(o no hay) afuera.
Todo se entremezcla
el borde el centro son gemelos
la distancia la proximidad
ambos los recuerdo hondamente en la superficie.
Todo se entremezcla,
el siglo hace una trenza con los vientos
y los labios de la mujeres.
Nada sale de aquí.
Empiezo a sospechar que todo cambia
de casa como el suspiro cambia de boca
y cada pensamiento es un techo temporal.
Cada forma es un azar y cada cambio un fatalismo.
Este es mi testimonio;
mi propia voz
entrando en eco al olvido.



Poesía Contemporánea

eleven short cantos



Around my neck who knows how history made a voice out of silhouette.
From my lips a hand tore
away in tragedy
the chord
that screamed for more.


Time was a pebble I threw into the bucket of space.


Today the pond was patient.
Swallowing from the hot dust
the stupidity of the shadows.


The light was hanging from a branch,
bending space like the surface of
a habitual dewdrop.


The mirror is red with rage.


The world is still glowing, next
to an enormous fire.
I picked up a shadow that was untouched.


I was just waking from the misery of being born in a place so big, I’d never see it all.


The streetlight turned red.
Grass burning
through the wings
under the sight of the moon.


No one dead has come back
to tell us
It’s nearly midnight,
there’s no exception
to that.


How decisive is the blindness
of the storm
& the twigs are still shivering
in memory.


When murmur is no longer a labyrinth,
when I see the teeth biting the dark
and how the depths of earth
have been waiting for me
behind a cluster of
soft sorrows.



Contemporary Poetry

Siete cantos



Han pasado muchos días. Muchos.


Alguien toca la puerta. ¿Será el misterio?
No. El misterio pasó a las 3pm.


Porciones grotescas de éxtasis, muchas.
Campos insoportables de soledad, muchos.
Trayectos saturados de sufrimiento, muchos.
Regiones iluminadas de sosiego, muchas.


El mundo está cansado de repetir el cambio.
Quiere descansar, acobijarse con las sombras
de un olvido momentáneo.
Quiere dormir un cuarto de hora.


La desolación es andar perdido bajo las estrellas. Muchas estrellas.


Los abismos se han ido.
Como una manada de gacelas.
Los filósofos temen morirse de hambre.


Sin que nadie entienda la vida,
siguen pasando las noches. Muchas.



Poesía Contemporánea

first time



Remember the beginning
when even purity was a hot coal
in our hands.
The waves of genesis
and we built a clock, a molecule at a time.
We followed the river and
craved of its skin like white fur and foam
to be annihilated as beams and ripples in the sea.
Society was a coffin where we learned a dialogue of echoes.
But now this ear of mine hears the throat of time gutter
so timeless motion of reiteration
its old blossoms of fine appearance.
Now the distance is glazed with my breath.
The elements are trapped in the hard wombs of words
but everything else crumbles as shadows being
faceless in the ash.
Memory, remember when memory was a fruit we had only
tasted once?
I’m frightened because the sky is immense
and I am naked in its clouds
like a prostitute in the



Contemporary Poetry