It is no hard task
to sit with a book
& glass of wine
all night
waiting perchance
the end of all events;
patiently becoming
dumber by the words
and wiser by the wine;
serene and slumberous
in the certainty
that all things will perish
today, next morning
or in a thousand years.
Toda la realidad
se contrae en
una gota
la bebo
la lloro
empiezo a olvidar
que tengo ojos,
el movimiento que veo
se torna en el eco del olor
empiezo a olvidar
que mi piel siente las cosas,
lo tangible se torna en acordes
atrapados en el claustro
de mi brevedad
empiezo a olvidar
que los oídos tienen voz,
solamente veo las huellas
que deja el viento
en la arena de mi orejas
empieza a nacer
una borona de tierra
debajo de mi lengua,
suelta raíces con sabor a cielo
y despliega una flor
que la protege
el techo de mi voz
toda la realidad
se encoje a una esencia
la sujeto
con mi
olvido.
within the
last moment
when you lift
existence
as a weightless
fish in your hands
when the road
becomes your tail
shivering
as the endless
echo of the earth
when nothing else
shall come
and the eyes dance
as flies in the darkest air
within the last
pause of perception
when
the blood becomes
still as the shadow
on the ground;
a white butterfly
leaves your mouth
to be carried away
by the gale of
silence
I found
the shadow
carpeted with
ache
I couldn’t
leave the
island of my
skin
unable
to break and free
as a sky without
zenith, I sunk
into a low and
blue tear
then morning hung
as the erotic
fluvial voice
this mouth is a gash
that never heals
thrusting verbs as blood
in the bloating thought
I look down
to find my shape
covered in otherness
I was there
alloyed WITH
the world
like
the élan and heart
together
in immeasurable desire.
They say
I should kill
myself.
I could
disguise my
sadness, dress it
in irony
let it seep
softly out
as dissatisfaction.
But I can’t. I
become vociferous
about the meaningless
rotation of the earth.
. I keep
pushing them to see the vanity of all efforts,
the relativity of all aspirations and the futility
of all achievements.
I love them. Because they are blind
angels still clinging to
an extravagant illusion.
They need not change.
But I’m getting drunk
and foraging through ancient doubts
closing in on the certitude
that nothing can be known.
I bring back from the books
the inevitable history of death.
I speak and they say
I should kill
myself,
or be forever miserable.
I say no; I’ll write poetry.
Enséñame el secreto
para alivianar el peso
de las cadenas azules
de la percepción
enséñame el truco
para olvidar
las cuatro paredes
del tiempo
enséñame la alquimia
que desfigura el recuerdo
dejando infinito fondo
en cruda transformación
enséñame el mantra
con que ahogas
la voz que repite:
vas a morir – para que seguir
enséñame la sabiduría
de no reconocer nada
enséñame esa ceguera
con la que cruzas
la cuerda que cuelga
sobre la absurda nada
enséñame un arte
para pintar este sueño
como algo más que
un efímero delirio
I hold
the final ache
that fragment of ash
shrouded in perception
the wind passes
through the world
wrinkling it
as a docile flag
when did I cease
to believe that
I exist
now all this movement
wanders ownerless
without a pivot
these loneliest eyes
still gathering
the last details
of the vanishing earth
it is so sad
to lie
and pretend this
will last
the canal’s waters
are fleeing from
the light of the sun
I hold
a flake of pain
tight within
my clenched fingers
it is not my hand
but a boat
carrying illusion
till the horizon
as its wake
No.
Si hubiera existido
la tierra no recordaría.
Solo es posible recordar
lo que un día se olvidará.
No.
Si hubiéramos existido
ya estaríamos olvidados.
La existencia es tan sencilla
que ningún recuerdo la atrapa.
Así de pequeña es.
unable to wake
I remained
behind the ruin of a memory
a Chinese serpent
swerving in the currents
of my dormant eyelids
nothingness was a province
where an obsidian pyramid
stood against a starless night
there in bed
roving like a raving raven
within the
delicate depths of darkness
surrounded by
a deep moat –
the dark waters
of space
swallowing any ray of light
that may cross over
to my dispossessed eyes
lone
existing alone
light as perishable infancy;
heavy as a bridge above years
a statue
untying itself
from its surface
of imitation
so I squandered the imported
bullion of dreams
and with quivering fascination
became empty and
bankrupt
of image
unable to wake
I surrendered
like
a history
written on the soft
tissue of the spirit –
never to be
read.
Beyond Language 
You must be logged in to post a comment.