There
by the brook of your stare
I meet the sound
of your drowning,
‘alas’ so light and lasting
a word surfacing like sighs from your eyes
I make room and stand back
so you run into the invisible
curl of a mistake,
my child you’ve begotten
sadness and its truth
is more distance than those streaming
glares that leap from walls to illusions –
there
I recognize our mutual meaning
nowhere in this fog
the outline of solution
nor the source of our misery.
Mi mirada
erróneamente
puesta sobre el juego
de las sombras sin bordes
el auto zumbando entre el humo
los cabellos que no sé a quién pertenecen
–
algo se mueve aquí como instinto de aire
algo me digiere como si estuviera
saciando el apetito del tiempo,
algo tiene los pelos de punta
y yo soy su piel,
algo acontece
y yo cedo.
I remember
the hungry birth I never had
and while I’m rolling like a pebble
down on a mountain I’ve never seen
I sense the abyss that does not exist
full of sand
frenetic inside a wave
following a cyclic course
with bubbles bursting
in a memory of circles.
I’ve tried to kill myself
in many furies and ranges
to drown infinitesimally
in the tiniest contemplation
somewhere finding the courage
to disappear without justifying
the senseless life I’ve led;
I’ve searched for death, afraid still
of void and thunder,
my hand – sometimes –
caresses the skin, outline, source
of an object’s beauty,
trembling uncertain
of its reality.
Sanity is a gift.
I only have the
penance of existing
in the passivity of fated
annihilation, wording
the symbol of illusion,
symbols
and nothing more.
Que suaves son las alegrías,
los significados mezclados
con las hojas amarillas de un árbol entrevisto
bajo la luz de otra ciudad,
en las calles negras
los días revueltos con horas
y aquí plasmado
en la punta de la noche
tratando de decidir
si de verdad
mi galaxia de dolor
es pura distancia
entre lo bello
y lo vivido.
buried
in red
illusion
in the anthropomorphism
of ginger youth
in the great convulsion of beauty
affliction mirror fountain and edge
in dense mist of light
waiting for events
to dissolve
in
truest
red illusion
a hum
emerging
like hot laughter
from the frozen
fields of ego
how could I begin
when the earth below
me
clusters in great furrows
of graphic skin
its glimmer trapped
in pockets of wrinkles
with the open slit
of red dawn
the opening lips
of a raw horizon
with my imaginary blood
in its arc,
‘ how ’
in this awry mirror
to begin
and inevitably
to end ?
Why are there so many triangles in my fear?
Some oval fish ate my joy,
only a box left empty
but for its red swollen soul;
how did you get that chain reaction lodged in your face,
god what handwork in that knitted viel
the wool has the age of a spiral
and the shine of measurements –
parallel to the material of gasps,
little tales of windows
peering into the empty
square of a life
I begin to salivate
with the thought of dedicating
an entire life to poetry,
a voracious appetite to eat
the great voids of nature and spirit;
that while indigent
I can still satiate mi hunger
with the stillness of the mountains
and the spring of the sky
that runs sweet
night and day.
Al centro
no le cabe
nada
aun así
se impregna de tristeza;
el perímetro
viene y va
inútil como una mosca
que recoge partículas
de mierda
en sus aleatorios viajes
en un campo;
la periferia un sinfín
y el centro oculto
bajo la piel de la lágrima.
Beyond Language 
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