the swamp of volition


There must be
a method
to turn off freedom.

To waste motion in a curve
and glide down the city
as cascade.

To be sunk in the fumes
of machines or dance
in front of a choir
without any bullshit.

To undress in the cold
sensations of the crowd.

To chew the furniture of words.

To fall into the sound of water.

The idea of thought
would be framed
in museums
and memorial sites.

Like an ancient artifact of struggle.

All the small things will float in the air
and we’d decorate the problem of life
with the husks of memory;

without choice
life would be a nail
deep in the crust of flux

and language      moss at the rim of our lips.

Contemporary Poetry

Hemos alquilado la frontera y la luz


en este maldito rincón
alquilo piel

y de puente
saco una tristeza
en ladrillos
sobre el reír

miren esta gran luna
entrar al bar
para decirnos que es hora

de mudarnos
de cerrar el vaso
hora de estar a solas
sin sueño

sin la cobija del corazón

Poesía Contemporánea



How they got into thought

– the swans –

nobody knew

how they would echo through logic

like a kite in the wind


like little girls

they would comb their feathers

with infinite time on their hands

– these swans–

had a sense of mission

but they are complex

creatures with sin as a stain

on their coats of snow,

who knows if they’ll go back

to the nervous quivers of the pond;

for now, they’re stuck

like a satellite

to the cusp of an hour

and I’m embarrassed

to admit

that I stare at them

all the time

as they sleep between

the chunks         of words.



Contemporary Poetry



En gran época
había mitad de misterio
en la voz del respiro;

la luz como canto
salía del ojo y mirábamos
el frío hacer remolinos
en las colinas del monte;

al aire nocturno el mundo
no tenía características
pues era un viaje negro
exhibiéndose en el olvido;

quién recuerda esa tierra
acostada sobre el tiempo
erigiendo sus penas de piedra,

                        sus mares de tristeza.

Poesía Contemporánea

black curve and edge


At that bar
Was there.

Like smoke this night
as opulent
as a disguise of pure
phantom with the smell
of that guy
that was weird and touching

I went out
part of things
and little

like a puppet
a whole morsel
of crumbs in
a pocket

an idiot
with ideas
and I was
thinking how
much I paid
for that drink

a long pause

quote “ death is not, to be considered a transition to a state completely new and foreign to us, but rather a return to one originally our own from which life has been only a brief absence. ‘”

basically he
smelled like
burnt almonds

and somewhat scared
and sacred

the air like petal was woman
in my arms
the love
of invisible.

Contemporary Poetry