of perception

brown wood floor

The raw brown
of this wood
the brown seed
of the book
the brown organ
of the smoke
I move like yellow
tint of dust
around the room
by balconies of thought
swift tactless morsel
of some body
I came to this room
I saw the wood
I conquered none
and half a pulse
traverses
without a crown
of ideas
without laurel
or course
I feel the brown
seeping into
whatever the room hides
I concentrate movement
towards a loud buzz
I call this circumstance home
and beyond it
an abyss
without a window.

Poetry 2012

once existed

To once exist

The day begins
has it?
already night
the stars squash me
with their colossal laughter
is it funny or cruel?
hopelessness is my cue
I’m a colonial boy
with imperial regrets
I have stepped onto cities
that once existed, oh history
I – is a word
the most engrossing word
for the conscious beast
I am impossible
and all the rest
I step onto a stone or an abyss
which?
is still undecided

 

Nihilistic Poetry

Peregrino – Wayfarer

Wayfarer Poet

cuando terminé
de empacar
el universo
en mi mochila
ya había olvidado
a donde iba,
quería sentir como si
un candelabro opulento
colgara sobre
mi cabeza
iluminando con sus mil
brazos
todas las distancias
en este palacio
de tierra,
el destino
por más sinuoso que fuera
terminaría en el abismo
por eso te dije
antes antes antes
de que seamos polvo,
seamos barro unánime
en las manos
del alfarero,
un tazón
lleno de vino
para el poeta,
un seno de arcilla
en la boca del
dios que canta.

 

A translation:

 

By the time
I finished
packing
the universe
in my rucksack
I had forgotten
where I was going
I want to feel as if
an opulent chandelier
hangs over
my head
illuminating with its thousand
arms
all distances
in this palace
of earth
however sinuous
the path
it ends in abyss
so I told you
before before before
we become dust
let’s become unanimous mud
in the potter’s
hands
a cup
full of wine
for the poet
a breast of clay
at the mouth of
the god
that sings.

 

contemporary poetry

projections

Modern Abstract Art

what kind of poems
will I write
when I’m fifty
and have outgrown
this adolescent existential
playground
 
 
 
what insect
will I become
that creeps through
the routines of madmen
and slithers past
the bars
wistful
of the first
days
when all was violence
and hunt
 
 
 
what kind
of
outpouring
will my language
pretend
when all it has done
is clothe
the only sacred
but forgotten
word
 
 
 
what hour
marks the descent
not unlike this
slow motion snow
that takes me
down with it
till I’m all
bliss and abyss.

 

 

contemporary poetry

 

 

The choice

Nihilism Poetry

I have chosen darkness
in it
poetry swells,
literature breeds
dark and oppressive
I breathe in an atmosphere of coal
black ash swarms in metaphors and
contradictions
beating heart that’s become
sullen with life
I choose obscurity
like the ambiguous rose
within an unmovable abyss
I choose the ungraspable void
where borders and objects
interfuse with phantasmagorical thoughts
leaving no content, awaiting an obscure name –
in this dark dream
the Mysterious
is like wine
flowing through the veins
of whatever I am.

nihilistic poetry

to another vision

Burn to crumbs

to infernal to love to

agony to evaporation

to rebirth to a thousand human

screams to another

to another vision

to another of all possible worlds

burn with anger

dare to bring collapse

collective shield of cowardice

be alone to be silent

to restart to reformulate

to negate all to remake all

from alas to alas

perish world by world

planet after planet

sun to sun

ignite! ignite!

ignoble race, ignite!

to hate to love again

to die to be reborn

ignite immortal missioners

to purge heights and abysses

unite in the fire

ignite in invisible apotheosis

from plight to undreamt of

life…                                        begin!

A modern crisis

a_modern_crisis

We were born after a whole deal of postures and attitudes had been tried and dismissed. It seemed to me that this was the first time in human history when life was unbearable even while we have all the basic conditions for survival and a surplus of commodities. We live in the absence of a raison d’être and our very lives could actually be defined as the search for that sacred reason. We would and probably will travel around the globe and consume every possible experience in search of that elusive understanding that could justify and make sense of all the seemingly senseless gyrations between birth and death, hunting for that catharsis that would erase our feelings of inadequacy and insufficiency.   
If I am allowed to make a stand on the current emptiness that governs the modern rebel (and I must state that this rebel is even reluctant to assume this label), I could place him or her within a crisis of value. Let’s formulate this crisis. The ‘fortunate’ human being that is born in a middle-class or higher family is bestowed an excess of leisure, which is occupied with an endless parade of distractions, vague and short-lived entertainments that do not provide deep-rooted satisfaction. This repetition of material hedonism is deceiving and can engage the individual in a merry-go-round of renewable pleasures that are futile in their long-term effects. What an overwhelmingly urban and global society presents as the content and purpose of leisure is more often than not a distraction, a veiling of our impoverished consciousness. The value crisis in which we are situated stimulates thus, within the rebel, a sort of antagonisms against life in general and humanity in particular. Is this a wise human race encumbered by trivial pursuits?
The rebel stands in an existential agnosticism. What can replace the insipid routines, what solution can one offer to resolve the dilemma of human baseness? If leisure represents the time humans can delve in their purpose, our reasoning would lead us to suppose that the average human lives for unchallenging and ready-made experiences. What about the higher fields of art, music, religion, love? Have these been explored sufficiently by the modern man? Do they offer any comfort? All questions with no ready answer, the rebel is obliged to ask without answering, merely pointing to the emptiness without offering a substitute.
The rebel doesn’t conclude hastily but is eager to explore any alternative. The contemporary paradigm is of a successive development from school to career, love to family, wealth to belongings, material accumulations to distractions; yet all this is seen as a deception, a reductionism of the natural potential for a human life.  The rebel is apt to adopt a cynical skepticism towards the replacement of one mode of life for another. Life becomes an experiment, a lonesome journey through the limbo of uncertainty. Could religion fill this gap, could music appease this anxiety, could art express this loneliness, could love heal this wound? The experimenter enters them all and many others with caution but will urgently surrender if any of these would deliver him from the surrounding emptiness. Yet traps abound, the guinea-pig rebel still has within the seed of conformism, soon things lose their depth and life abandons its impetus. How to keep the zest for life awake without returning to the dullness of a repetition-ridden soul?
It may seem we are doomed, that any experience by force of repetition becomes insufficiently satisfying for the abyss of hunger that grows inside. 
These reflections surge from a modern crisis. A crisis from our lack of meaning, our absence of value. This, in other words, can be called a spiritual crisis. But the themes of this crisis are not god or original sin, it rather belongs to practical ontology, that is to say, a transforming of the quality of being, producing a reality that becomes not only bearable but powerful enough to sweep away the myopic awareness of normal human life. A new understanding might be wanting, a new wisdom of what we understand human life to be, what we do and what we aspire to; a journey that requires a mixture between philosophy and adventure, a compendium of revolt, daring and openness.
 
 
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More or Less

Twilight and morning are now irresistible   

    they hang above like motherless children 

there is no reason to believe in one or the other 

           all the insects swarm this local abyss 

fortunate, for us, all minutes randomly orbit an hour 

    anywhere is home, or else, unfettered lives would not be possible 

  reentering again a field of silences 

          morning or night or true or false 

were all excluded 

             an intimate void 

more or less… yours.

Do not approach me

I’m surrounded by an atmosphere
not of air but of stone
the vastness of the Existent, breaking
falling upon me like an avalanche of lead
I am compressed, the center of the earth
knows nothing of this tremendous pressure
Exhausted under this weight
words fail, expressions useless
Science’s theorems futile!
The Milky Way hangs on my back
There is no abyss sufficiently deep —
I am the lowest vortex
All objects crush me in their fall
Here’s the dungeon of gravity
            Do no approach me…