El mundo se deshace
lentamente
trozos blancos de su piel
flotan al suelo
en el aire resuena
los angélicos acordes
de la tristeza
que engendró al mundo,
y ahora
al ritmo de los
copos de nieve
que lamentan
el final
se unen los labios
de los tiempos
fúnebres y salinos
en un contacto recóndito
mientras la sangre
de la tierra
se derrama
por estos cielos
taciturnos.
I was born
starving
and the world
could only muster up
a colorless blanket
of Time
in which it wrapped me
…while I’m slowly
fainting
in its folds.
The night sat on my face
like the smelly old ass
of a rotten moon
just on the day
I’ve been fired from life
wandering off on the cliffs
of who knows what conundrum
and joyfully composing the silly
gooey poetics of a drunken soul
I recall writing something about
the foulness of philosophical systems
or the moans of relic religions;
whatever it was,
the night and its greasy weight
sat on my face
like the spits of moonshine
that drunks burp out
on the face of a
lonesome hour.
I’m tired or writing
the new year
or what’s left
someone said last night
that the academic
circle
of sociology and economics
was shifting
I didn’t know a thing
even after all the books
I read or bought.
All I have is a scotch
and the lazy poems
of an ex-german poet
that lived in Los Angeles
plus the
40% plus
that keeps me awake
through the long nights
of the wasted
unneeded
– such a beautiful word-
the unneeded
whispers
of the drunk
man.
Dónde me llevan
todos estos versos
dónde me dejarán plantado
en qué sombra
de cuál solipsismo
se derraman palabras
como gotas de sangre vital
por dónde
cae
la inmaterial sustancia
de un sueño
por dónde cursan
los ríos
de una aventura
imaginada,
en qué tinta
quedan plasmados
los irreversibles hechos
de una invisible
vida.
Y este dedo
que se desliza
debajo del ojo
sintiendo la masa
de piel
como una tierra
hecha de carne
todo es todo
hay que cerrar los ojos
cerrar los ojos
para tenerlo todo
cae de mi frente
el sudor frío
de un doloroso éctasis
si no es santidad
debe ser
una corriente
emanando de
los vientos primordiales
que zumbaron
entre los hemisferios
de la primera noche,
hay que cerrar los ojos
y sentir
la carne con su sangre
la música con su vino
la vida con su muerte
todo con todo
a las orillas
de un silencio.
The end
had come
plummeting to the ground
my fingers spread
making one last contact
with the sidewalk
the rough cement
at the base
of this ultimate world
I was dying
my heart had only a few
beats left
before the entire
intoxication of life
would vanish
and I
touching this world
for a last time
on the street side
the hard grey cement
the pain and the beauty
the last sight of sky
the last gust of air
leaving
all the strange
beautiful
perplexing realities
within the earth
that was holding me
for the very last time.
Does it come late
to define
this old reality
with all the
unusual
words
unearthed
at the other
side
of
the
lonely
human
soul.
Inaccessible trees
stand in the fog
as the limits to my world,
a fog dense and metaphysical
trees alien as my cavernous thoughts
a few brave lifeless sticks emerge from the snow
the milky wind brushing
whitening them slowly
with the impassible oblivion
that has set in,
an ivory spell
led astray into this cold nook
of washed away eternity,
while I’m encapsulated
in the immobility
of this white extraneous soul
a pleasing despair
that is felt
after each
footstep in the ice.
More Poetic Scenery: Nihilistic Poetry
Beyond Language 
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