i’m stuck
between
the two
unproven
premises
of logic
i’ve heard
the preacher
and his coax
of science
i drink
and therefore
fuck
the whore
of faith
my delicate
finger
is up the
annals
of art
with no
respite
i know
no
value
the
things
we
pretend
to know
in the sperm
of time
I lift
the stone
and find
red
the sky
is the outer
shell of mother’s
breast
they kissed
to imitate
a sleeping
sound
I allow
the species of rock
to define
my heart
so many
drunks
surround me
like a fence
I collect
our sighs
like crumbs
of drying wax
if shop windows
were mirrors
we would buy
ourselves
I pick up
a wet piece of paper
on the other side
said: impossible
I return
to the stone
lift and find:
archers with ash bows
my vision
turns red
and partly
unborn
I listen
to wisdom
and remember
its broken wings
I sit inside
a library
because there is
nowhere else to go.
It was not yet summer
when the light dissolved
absolutely over my tongue
I had to return to the past
as if digging
a ruthless hole in my skin
my veins my bones my sky
will the black worm
eat consume digest
reinvent me?
death is the smoke
we breathe in
to unfold like a cluster
of manifestation
passively
the dream
reposes inside the
shell of reality
in one drop
of philosophy
the solitude
is assuaged
but the aperture
the encounter
the expanse
available only
through the pristine
ache of mystery
and its pilgrimage
found in an alighting
morsel of
beauty.
Sostengo el mundo plano
entre dos dedos
como una pluma de luz
nunca he querido ser dios
mi ambición no sobrepasa
la de una mosca gris
envuelta en fruta podrida
ahora con un ancho sol
en mi espalda
tengo que hacer eclipses
cuando paso en frente
de dos ojos tristes
tengo que recoger
la fugacidad
con las tenazas inútiles
del recuerdo
nunca quise ser dios
ni una columna
retorciéndose hacia el infinito
sueño con ser
la ceniza
sin volición
rodando
por un valle de espacio
vencida alegre entremezclada
con la inefabilidad del viento.
PoesíA nIHILISTa
There are
moments
when the earth
shakes likes ripples of myth
and the epic
begins
when a fallen
brown leaf
slowly returns
to its green nascent
breath
we leave in every nook
a morning of sighs
and the little signs
of a bygone nostalgia
because all attempts
fall into the crevice
of yesterday
and the dripping minute
serves as an eternity
for the drunks
with whom I share
my nights in delirium
within the occult temple
of a bar.
clasped as a bud
within its own
infant leaves
suddenly we remember
we’ve never been
within the stripes
of time
how many grains
of sand fit
within a hollow thought
the pure shadow
of her eyes
sways like
a song I
heard inside a
crystal
a single forest
grows from the
myriad chimes
of fate
I sleep
under its concave
leaves
awaiting
for the worms
to crawl into
my dreams
suddenly you remember
we’ve been immersed
within immense
sorrow
and you let
the sweat become
dew
clutched to the
skin of
a new day.
The standstill motion
of the substance
around us
in a flicker
the wood is a infant body
laying on the arm
of a ray of sun
the hourglass has
a plan to move
the shadows
the incense is dead
reeking like a
flame of pus
the instant sails
through all the events
carried by the wind of memory
with a transparent dress
a ghostly rain
is expected to sweep
up the remains
the fragments
in an untitled and random quest
Levito en este rayo de sol
como punto minúsculo
blanco de alma
no viviré más allá de esta levedad – me digo,
y en la punta verde de una hoja
de primavera dejo colgando el mito del alma
para vivir aun más liviano en este cuerpo de suspiro;
la verdad amarilla desciende hacia la ventana
rozando mis vellos con esa pasta de luz;
suelo pensar en los vacíos del desierto,
en el amanecer, cuando las horas y las arenas
se muerden unas a otras
y una sola estrella queda en el cielo
para ser devorada por un escarabajo
que deja sus pequeñas huellas
como estelas en las dunas
de mi eco.
PoesíA nIHILISTa
Life will destroy you
and there won’t be any more words
to describe our love for
that which never came
into existence
imagine a bud
leaves in slow bloom
ages upon minutes
minutiae upon epochs
for a product
that never is finished
but goes on
from seed to form
back to dust and roam
life is strange
with surges of anxiety
I contemplate
its rather statuesque secrets
there will be no more words
or feelings or understanding
when the cerulean mouth of death
takes us in its mouth
under its pulpy tongue
and down the
infinite hole
of silence
I’m tired
of the heights –
of all the philosophies
of stars
of all the cosmologies
of tears
my bed now
is the corner
of a passing second
I let the rain in
to drown
all the intelligent answers
I want to be
as ordinary
as a crumb of bread
on your sleeve
or as the mustache
that is shaven every day
I’m tired
of all the pompous
universes that we dream
and of the fantasy and sorcery
of constellated thoughts
my mission
now
is to dissolve as
bits of soup
in the drain
or
broken fingernails
in the dirt
the whirlpool of wisdom
comes to a halt
and I am
as cold and tame
as a shadow
lying
under a streetlamp
every minute
of every night.
Beyond Language 
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