on a white couch

white_couch_poem

 

Poetry doesn’t prove a thing.
It disproves the authenticity of language,
the permanence of meaning and the
universality of reason. Suddenly,

I thought, on the couch, while
reading a history of Christianity. Christ!
what if that’s true. Dispensing order
the poet returns to a formulation
of disorder, a verbal approximation to
natural chaos. I thought,

while sinking in the couch. Silly
ruminations, I often say. But not
this time. I think I was on to some-
thing. Poetry as the last human act,
a summary of lived, thought, felt
experience, an attempt to crystallize
our plight in an image of poetic flight. I

thought, while slouching and setting
the book on the table. I wondered.
Have these architectural feats of language,
these monuments to image, any
lasting foundation other than soft voice?
That’s the question,

I pondered, while breathing deeply on
the white but dirty couch. What if this
coagulation of exasperation, these
swollen metaphors of pain, are merely
dissonant echoes drifting in the void?
I hypothesized,

while heavy on the couch. That is white
and somewhat stained.

Contemporary Poetry

verso miel

poeta_absurdo_amor

Quiebrasí lalenta piel.
¡Y pequemos pequeñas
antiguas alas delgadas
con placer! La tarde
se ha puesto azul
y la oscuridad es una
verde ventanita dejungla!
¡de lata! o ¡de frenesí!
Qué diferencia penetrar
la piedra si esta joven
en mis brazos es
capa de sol. La exquisita
cintura del silencio, siendo
nada oculto ni un monte,
ni un momento. Reinan
lasletras y son las 2
de la mañana, veinticuatro
de mayo, tejiendo
con garganta la tela
que esamor o temible niebla.
Dormiré con mujer
y perfil de gris extraño.
Quiebra así la lentapiel,
amada de verso miel.

Poesía Contemporánea

you.

truth

You.
And the world
is your shadow.
You pale like
the archeology
of a voice,
of a concept.
You.
Sleeping like
a classical representation
of philosophy.
You.
And the measurement
of the universe.
You
like a visible
collection of
fictions.
You, metaphysically
and verbally a
sign.
You the threads
of an octopus.
You.
My fundamental
posited
truth.

Contemporary Poetry

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!