I have a bubble
of music
swelling inside:
the silent walls,
the cold
structures of silence.
It is a tiny
flame of sound,
a flickering leap
upon the smooth
slabs of concrete.
I saw the snow
today fall
like an army of silent
white deaths.
And I wanted
to join its
fragile thaw.
I feel.
A minor chord
aches,
yes it resonates,
inside a minor heart.
I pressed down
decadently on
the piano keys.
The dark is draped with echo.
se parecía a una vida
o algún profundo
entrelazado
con milagro
pero esto no es vida
estoy aquí
en este inmenso
minuto
cada vez que
me acostaba
en el horizonte del tiempo,
es decir, en la esperanza
regresaba con un
sol enfermo
volvía al presente
y solo encontraba
una roca
sin su piel de piedra
en fin
no hay que ver
esto como una vida
sino como un garabato
tragado por una gorda
tragedia
here is my ear
curled up
like a journey
it is still
like a window
a vehicle
to a blind
landscape
some birds
come by
to peck on
my blindness
I hear a
cacophony
of impossible
counsels
whorled noise
that I accept
as the shade
of sound
here is my ear
hidden within
the source
of silence.
I wait
for structure
unguided orbit
‘round pitch black
eclipsed
purpose
I wait
for algorithm
gate through organism
a master-slave
relationship
between weightlessness
and me
I act
while belonging
to a higher order
of improbability –
fixed to the pillory
of a future
watch me
bicycle below
a clouded sky
unaware of the
the zoology
of experience
look
how a baby
embraces
a flock of details
but I still
lean against
a solidified flux
yes I
wait
for a self
to chain itself
to this body
like a saint
anchored
to
a pool
of feathers
Cuanto abrí la ventana
todo era blanco
como un misterio
desdibujado
me creí apóstol
con la misión
de pregonar
el recuerdo
del gris
a garganta seca
toqué el tronco del ser
sin embargo
algo queda
todavía sentir
la roja púa
que rodea
mi alma
blanquinegra
y no llego ni a la esquina
al estrellar contra
cada minuto
me ducho
desnudo
deshaciendo el nudo
del pene
con un mundo
allá afuera
sin músculo
sin más viento
sin su costra
de color.
But to sit
inside to mourn
the faint flame of the tongue
a domain bursting with curl
don’t move these eyes
they soon thunder
behind two happy lips
asleep
to sit uprooted
of her hairs not beatific
by the window
to mourn, winter, the weight
sentenced to be borne
by a few final thoughts
they encircle waves around
minutes
to sit certain
of a scene, dream, or green unhappiness
I could roar like a hallucination
inside the tiny mount of my sleep
but to mourn
in the morning
without a second chance to
kiss
to sit
and the heart
shivers like a wet bird
to mourn
unblinkingly
like twigs of rain
towards soon of old
tomorrow
Cuál nosotros
recoger algunas
épocas pensadas
por alguna sombra
yo no inventé
el dolor
coincidió
un ayer
se la comió
era torpe
la ilusión
traiga el rojo
la respiración
los ojos en otoño
ven a dormir
en azul
aunque sea
en celeste
aunque sea
casi no existir
A loosely transcribed prose poem based on my Spanish poem earlier tonight.
There, something like a stain, was once a sky. Some aberration of smoke and light, of cloud and fire; a threshold. Was it even my decision to intertwine or to blend with destiny? I am governed by the first desire that slithers between two hesitations. I disown the vehicle of my body, the possibility of choice. I raise a hand like another Pessoa to hint a goodbye, but to what? The cloud? The sun that I never knew except for its light?
There was a man that could not continue today, he stood in front of a horizon.
He said: goodbye.
He said: I return to the unknown.
Hubo un cielo,
algo vi por la ventana,
una confusión
de nubes y de luz,
un portal.
Me entrelazo
con el destino,
adopto cualquier deseo
que caiga entre
mis indecisiones.
Dejo de ser
mi propio vehículo
dejo de ser
autónomo.
Cómo me despido
de una nube,
cómo le explico al sol
que nunca vi más
que su luz?
Hubo un hombre
que se detuvo hoy
ante el horizonte.
Dijo: adiós.
Dijo: regreso a ese
origen que nunca
entendí.
when some disease erodes
the asphalt
a newer skin
to sow
our crooked shadows
when some orbit of dirt
surrounds
the hunting heart
where some twig
losses a single
leaf
when a step no longer
interred
in a busy old grid
but to settle upon
the new element
of pause
when everything
imitates memory
and wreck
pick up a stone
and imitate its
barbaric sleep.
…
This was, of course, a fictitious escapade. To flee from the constraints of the invisible system by leaping onto a wing of image. But the hard aphasic stone of man’s city is impervious to our poetry. We must drag our heavy bodies over predetermined paths. Poetry is drunkenness. And tomorrow we must awake scarred, shaken and as fixed as the streets we nauseatingly tread.
Beyond Language 
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