mundo y carne

mundo y carne

Dejémonos. Afuera,
algún limbo con un
entero nimbo.

Montemos el monte
que descansa debajo
del fin. Quiero regresar
al durante, y apagarme
en el comienzo.

Recuerdo acariciar
con la punta de mi oído
el sonido
de aquella noche.

Alejémonos, adentro.
Hacia alguna vieja parte
del olvido al ébano seco
que flota como alma.
En algún semidulce,
casi aquí donde calce.

Incomprendémonos. Al
darle tamaño y cortar
tardes de felicidad,
al tu decirme ‘la velocidad
de tu muerte’ y sonreírte
yo con los ritos de mis ojos.

Abandonémonos. Al
gran ahogo de infinitas
paredes. Y los sueños
juntan manos para
naufragar en una bellísima
idea.

Acabémonos. Aquí,
con una sombra fría
como cuerpo, pegando
ladrillo en el humo;
portando el pálido hecho
de nuestras pieles ajenas.

 

Poesía Moderna

this alone is clear

pond_of_universe

enswathe me
with the leaf
of another name

if a violet flower
quivers like ornament

on the ephemeral rawness
of this earth
so a tiny poet

cleaves like thistledown
to the thin vastness

of the word

if it was genuine
my standing by the pond
weighing the quantity of universe

in these thoughts

if it was certitude
that clung as cascade
to the branches

of renewing blood

upon exiting the flesh
I thought unto death
to look back toward

this pallid clarity of ash

this has been important to me
to fling final words as anchor
in the hidden plethoric ;

time as billowing toward
some lambent exit

without us,
this alone is clear
all these residual things

will remain
spilled in darkness.

 

Contemporary Poetry

civilization

civilization

ALLRIGHT, YES

you heard the extra elle

let’s get down to the facts.

There’s this thing, civilization.

Outcome of humanity. Yes,

Humanity. If it could speak collectively,

it would say, ‘yes, it was moi, I made

civilization out of my disposition to progress

in my creative adaptation’ but let’s re-examine

that posture (not to mention that cosmolomania,

if moi, the poet, can coin a neologism).

That anthropogenic posture that humanity,

or little clusters of near-humans, created

civilization is far-fetched indeed and in deed.

The modern individual does not take into account

what s/he means by the word ‘individual’,

which is fundamental to the concept of humanity,

especially when it comes to the ‘feats’

humanity has achieved. The individual of today

will have you believe that s/he has been,

to some degree, in control of their personality

(the exact age is imprecise, perhaps inaccessible,

but they will say something between the ages of 7

and 10), that this awareness of theirs has been

the same entity carried through time, up to the present

moment, of which they are the agglomeration

of any events, reactions, decisions and postures

taken in that period of time. Wonderful, I say.

But there is this assumption of control, you see.

Humans today assume they are to some degree

in control of their personalities. Whereas, through

introspection and plain observation, we can become

aware that we’re in no way conscious of many processes

that enable (that allow) our personality to subsist.

For example. The learning process or method. We

learn things, yes. We memorize things, yes. But these

so-call feats are generated effortlessly by our

own cognitive substratum. Let’s not get too complex.

I said up there, let’s get down to the facts.

The facts are, as far as one can be honest, there are

abilities or capabilities that enable us to do the things we do,

and we don’t know how we do them. Things such

as memory, imagination, learning, poetizing;

that are not in our direct conscious control. In fact, they

operate without our consent. In a way, we are the

outcome of these underground mechanisms that

dictate our perceptions, actions and philosophies.

So, we have this thing. Civilization.

Expressing itself and we’re its own audience and stage.

Just playing around, for a while it seems.

And it’s not really our doing. It arose from the interaction

of so many intertwined factors that it’s not computable. Oh

I can already hear the technologist of infinite progress

shrieking in dismay. But that’s my story folks. As they say

in these lands. Skål!

contemplative light

heavy_light

 

Sits against a white wall.
Looks at the window, stares in fact.
Silence is corporeal. Like a slow vapor
gliding through the room. Like a heavy
light falling to the floor and hardening
into a luminous crust. I watch him
think a thought as if it were the
last thought to ever enter his mind.
This is not real, he thinks.
This is not real, he thinks again.
A flutter of figments,
a crossroads for pigments.
This is not real.
Who could have foreseen him
washing his hands in those streams
of thick light. Who could have
foreseen him tying silence to
the weight of a spiral.
This is not real,
he repeats for a fourth time.
Sitting against a white wall.
Like an old portrait, immobile
while staring at the window.
He has become conscious
of the weightlessness of time.

 

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

a song in language

language_and_World

Here is language
standing in the world
like an obese piano

here are my lips
caressing chaotically
a plaintive arpeggio

a strung mass
of sea splatter
struck by mechanical
whim

I sense freedom
in verbal form
that suckles the
shadow behind
vocal foam

here are the colors
aligned in black mountain
& white valley
here the world
trickles in echo

here is language
standing in the immense
like sculpted fluid

here are my lips
opening like rain
the bouquet of sound

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

hacia viento

copa_de_árboles

He corrido amaneciendo
por mi voz
abriendo cordillera
cual hunde su letargo
en las crestas de mis latidos
he lastimado la luz ayer
cuando le consulté el por qué
de la oscuridad del porvenir
inmemorialmente tapé mi esqueleto
con el recuerdo de tantos
dioses escapados de las mareas
me meto sin ciencia
al ciego enredo de mi sangre
sin clave u obligación
tragué las copas de los árboles
que se mecían como gotas
de cielo
y le hice catedral al hueco
donde faltaba el alma
he amado atardeciendo
la claridad de mi locura
por mi boca
salió una isla hacia viento.

Poesía Contemporánea