Debo nacer antes con ayer alto
de mujer.
Y hombre tal vez era elegir nombre
de esperar.
Campo lento quizá vida ilumina
ancla moviéndose.
Anticipar necesaria piel abrazar fe
durmiéndose.
Debo aclarar después brazo de luz
en la cama.
Y humedecer vasta sensación con propósito
acabándose.
Ley desde silencio con vehículo
atento en ala.
Aparezco soñándome viviendo inmensa exactitud
imaginada.
Debo nacer pronto con mañana puesto el nadir
en músculo vertical dilatándose.
Sorry,
I can’t tell you here
what value, how important,
where everlasting.
Haven’t found it, every bit
is rising like a moon
no matter if it’s a thing
or a thought it disappears
somewhere.
I feel human, literally
a heart pumping veins
in rings of muscle. And
also empty space between
all of you and this isolation of brain,
language, dark brown eyes,
I let you walk pass me
passersby. If I touch
you by chance by accident by love by desire
by dinnertime by church by antiquity by destiny
by skin by Friday by crying by leaving
it will be my memory moaning for
togetherness again with the ebb and flow
of zeroes echoing in the silence.
I do not claim
my isolation is unique,
my brain bottled in language
looking out into the world
through dark brown eyes.
But I cannot touch you
when you are a tricklebird
dripping from the skyline.
Sorry,
our days are numbered and
we must face the tough blue earth
as if it were the end–
los pájaros mueven sus alas
como lenguas entre la niebla
allá afuera
la mujer se hace campana
y el hombre aeronata en el agua
gira detrás de una sola flor
apaguen las luces
que la tierra hierve como fruta
sin perfumar su memoria,
alguien acaba de morir
el silencio avanza
intruso en el destino
humano
There is no method for definition: to learn how to define. Definition is a consequence of imitation, its foundation so deeply grounded in our perceptual models of reality that any reform would only be an aberration of the original fortuity. We learnt to use a system of language through imitation and even the precision of mathematics remains illusory as a result of being an imposed code of rules embedded in the ambiguous amalgam of imitative language.
I would live, dedicate my entire life to defining a single word properly – justly. That word would be: melancholy I do have other candidates, perhaps I would define another still stranger word: mysterious. What is mysterious? That which cannot be grasped intellectually. That which is still unknown, unexplained, perhaps the truly mysterious is that which can never be explained by thought, that which is intrinsically unknowable. Here I am defining a word with other words. But I would not stop there. I would access zones of intuition, a series of instruments predating language, like an amulet that contains an entire cosmology or a monolith that served as genesis to historical memory.
I would anchor my word to other unreliable words, vague words that by their very nature would serve as examples of the intangibility of my definition for mysterious. I would, for example, make mysterious synonymous with Life, Happiness, Nirvana, etc ect.
A mouse inside a tin projectile awed by the pouring light of speed . July 6. 2013.
Who chases the myth
while drenched
in the blood
of the primordial hunt?
Who has placed a hyphen
between Sky and I
to sense the aura
of a blue atmosphere
as a newer skin?
Who will concentrate
all language
into one singular word
that falls heavy
as a meteorite
into the sands
of nocturnal desert?
Who will endlessly
double the depth
of one earth suspended
in the night?
Who will reduce
consciousness
to a milligram
of image?
Who has made
a door from odor
through which memory
walks out
into open land?
Who will unearth
mankind and root
childhood back
in the curl
of a cloud?
Who will find
this poem hidden
from the glare of knowledge
waiting in the shadows
of their touch?
A study of foliage and light. July 5.2013
Anocheció
y fue nacimiento,
el rojo me rozó
con su ligero grueso,
palpitando las estrellas
corren como sangre
en el tiempo,
siempre
transitó el universo
por fuera de mi ventana,
cargado de novela
e ímpetu iridiscente,
noté que mis ojos
se me escaparon
como dos canicas
para caer en el fondo
del origen.
I’ve translated the sugar
of lung and by mist
the meaning of language
is a family of pauses
appearances that crawl
like incense between crevices
of hard barrier,
but then there is truth
which as a fence
we jump to land
on barbarous scenes of fading,
where we hang the moon
in our hollow cavity
and there walk in thick groups
of solitary breaths,
aiming to cut the tragedy
in two great halves
with the rim of suffer.
You must be logged in to post a comment.