Las hojas caen,
un vuelo en reverso.
Una sola memoria
sobrevive del día de hoy.
Se trata de un árbol
con sus hojas temblando en el viento.
De hoy, solo existe ese árbol,
enmarcado por la ventana por donde
lo miraba un hombre;
al mismo tiempo que pensaba
que no existe árbol,
ventana ni hombre.
How a book
of history and deep time
carves to certainty
the doom
that is inches or eons away
we subsist
clothed & saluting
as speck, blip
so this is a cosmic process
love and civilization
the means to forget
the end
I think of sex
and a daub of paint
on loose sandstone
I wonder,
the pride of grass?
as mankind climbs
like vine
weather slackens
the skeleton merely
scars the brick
my words,
how strange they hunt
the vanishing core
of things
these temperamental chords
that tremble momentarily
and regress
to sole silence
yeah years teeth in sun
matter
piles up
dry
out there
waking
which is a breath
half air
half tear
obedient bodies die
these melodies
of tragedies
nothing more
than an idea of
awareness
this geology of memory
experience
breaks inevitable like waves
on far distant moon
unable to alter
the course
of inane atoms
the waves keep crashing
on the thinning stone
that life
half-asleep in chance.
He creído
los mares
son manchas en el papel
pálido de corazón y fluente
en el horizonte vacío
de verdad, una textura
de nube sin palabras
inscritas a lo que se ve ;
para sentir que morir
sucede de rutina
en estas estelas
que abrevian las memorias –
manos al ataúd
el momento enterrado
y son estas frases o fragmentos
que flotan a resplandecer
como pétalos amargos
en dulce danza de defunción.
what evidence
would suffice
to convince
the éyes to close
– in mid-light –
forever and reach
the hardened
spine of a bláck cloud
the finite dream
where all solids
behave as verbs
and désire
shrinks to a voice
muffled by á
new violence
of the soul.
Pongo una oreja
contra la desdibujada foto
de la memoria –
unos cuantos pasos imprecisos
en el cuarto de mi madre; el sol blanco
de 1987.
Ya me acuerdo, soy un espectro
preservado en mármol. Sin pies.
Apoyo mi cabeza de cal contra la noche.
No son estrellas. Son boronas de
pan blanco que tiré a la tierra
para que comieran los zopilotes.
Soy una cueva de lágrimas,
donde se bañan los murciélagos.
Veo la foto y sus eventos son
como reflejos del lago donde nunca nadé.
Soy un niño tallado en blanco y negro.
Sin dientes. 1987.
The horizon alights like a dormant lip.
The most important thing of the day
was not seen but felt.
Joy was not in me but around me.
Like a pool of emotion, I drift from
one spill to another. Joy. Boredom. Dread.
I’ve been wandering the whole day. Looking
at things as if they were rocks covered in moss.
The clouds were protagonists .
They are immobile, the city below balloons in ripples.
The line between the lips swallows the light,
the waves and the purpose.
A delicate gulp. Swollen with twilight.
One single nerve aches.
The one whose function
is to sense life.
¿no es filosofía
mover la mano
sobre las cosas
y sentir
sensualmente
la superficies
como la piel dura
de una ilusión
no es religión
buscar la apertura
entre un segundo
y una eternidad
no es poesía
observar la vida
para contarla
como
una realidad que no
pudo suceder
de otra manera?
to stare at her
for hours
while her shadow begins
to curl like trunks of smoke
on the wooden floor
to escape the heavy
brief pale
gaze of
strangers
to be close to her
as close tangled
irreversible
as hours are to years
to hear her voice
like the hieroglyph
of a flower
carved into the
speech of rocks
to touch her eyes
when the walls of the world
become calm timorous
mirrors
to face each other
and collide like antonyms
in the swelling unity
of love
Beyond Language 
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