El mundo entero es como esta
borona de tierra
que limpio de mi uña pulgar derecha;
cuando todavía era joven
hubiera pensado que en esa migaja
se encontraría una minúscula semilla de trigo
y al caer en la humedad terrestre
crecería,
pero ahora que la barba empieza a
crecer
sobre mis neuronas
el mundo entero
descuidadamente
lo elimino de esa apertura
al final de mi pulgar
y cuando cae,
lo majo.
El ídolo nace de cualquier objeto
cuando la repetición nos abraza
nos abrasa
nos consume
el silencio que despierta cuando todo lo que hemos creído
es falso
cuando nos alimentaron con falsas expectativas
erróneas teorías
y es una maldición tener que despertar solo
y vivir como loco mal adaptado
tan solo porque las reglas ya no tienen razón
imposible dar razones porque ellas están sin razón
ser loco y peligroso
sin ídolos ni máscaras
sin carne y sin idioma
permaneciendo en el apogeo de una decadencia
bajo el arquetipo del agobio
ajeno a la multitud deficiente del misterio
escasos días para el comienzo
la redefinición del nombre-
el fénix del origen
tome alza… y empezar de nuevo
cuando la pregunta llegue a la mentes de todos:
¿Qué idolatramos?
That this life is a song
a rhythm in time
it is a string of melody
an intoxication of chords
a synthesis of possibilities
an improvisation of pattern
that it is wandering
a spontaneous unity
an organic experience of circumstances
a multiplicity in simplicity
that it is an urgency to vibrate
a progress through novelty
a passage through uncertainty
a metamorphosis through seasons
that this life is a surprise
a song in disguise
there is little doubt.
The world is brand new!
everything in it exists
they all exist
everything was born now
the green little moss between two round rocks
the small hairy fibers of dust
the orange flame from this candle
the smooth nail on this finger
everything is new
visiting for a first time
they all exist
violently
enthusiastically
I have just been born
how close is everything
everything has a glimmer
Nostalgias y melancolías
entrar silenciosamente a un teatro
antiguo como el amanecer de la primera célula
en él está todo el movimiento
enteras relaciones
un objeto con infinitos brazos
en completa danza
con cada punta de átomo-
penetrar sigilosamente
“yo no soy parte de esto”
cuando es inútil pensar
cuando es necesario decir:
“inaccesible belleza”
todo de una semilla de oscuridad
nació este reflejo de universo
poner a un lado,
mi estremecido cuerpo,
para que en el vacío de mi ser
surjan otros capullos
llenos de realidades inéditas
y con cada nueva transformación
quede libre de huellas
no existan más memorias
tan solo, una extraña belleza.
Poemas Contemporaneos
It is impossible to remain coherent. It is an effort beyond human ability – and wonderfully convenient, it is only humans that desire coherence. Life, if you allow it to be, is too intense; and if you look for the words to describe or preserve it, then this intensity travels from wonder to monotony. There is not one single day that is ordinary – only because we are so intimidated by existence that we willingly enter that repulsive state of awareness called “normality”, which is to say, a trivial encounter with known and familiar objects. So, hours may seem like pleasant arenas, where nothing may occur too unexpectedly; but certainly the night comes, or leisure, or what bothers us immensely: waiting comes and hours turn into monsters, ordinary things into blasphemies. We then need to escape, leave this desolate stability; we need chaos, disorder, frenzy! Why? Because all along we’ve faked our pretty little ordered world. We did not want to see things too deeply, we ignored them so we could continue our 9-to-5 placid existence. So, when our hypocrisy is too heavy to bear, we desire madly to return to the world we ignored – we want to embrace the enigmatic, to unite with what is becoming and does not yet bear a name. So we rush away from ourselves only to wake up the next day sick with regret, as if we betrayed ourselves by indulging too much in the irrational. We bounce from one end to the other, grasping for complete coherence on the one hand and on the other, we strip ourselves naked for our plunge into unadulterated confusion. We are unable to leave permanently the false illusion we’ve created, but we fear to stay too long at the other shore, where laws, customs, languages, thoughts and egos break down.
Materiality is the common road. We tread its trail; we pursue the scent of rock. We are — these two words so inappropriate — herders of demise, we are bearers of disease. For what delicious goal we repeat the nausea of our desire, for what exhausted orgasm we repeat expectations for the future. We are really bound to this world of rock and air, we are truly sterile penises focused on ejaculation, while knowingly incapable of delivering results. And however putrid the atmosphere of habits may be, we continue in them, we wallow in boredom – because someday, we like to imagine, our collected decay will metamorphose into beautiful bliss. That day will come, we say hollowly to ourselves, when the sacrifice of wasting time will pay off and we can excuse ourselves by declaring: I had no choice but to wait.
So, what are we waiting for? We are – again these silly words – nagging children passively waiting for chance or fate to transform, deliver, or elevate this all-too-familiar playground into something we are not ashamed of, something that is more dignified than us. This is clearly shown by the regret and emptiness felt after festive events, after the euphoria of drinking and eating, after the ecstasy of sex, after the pleasure of spending – what’s left is only a longing that comes from a weakened being, somehow mutilated by its indulgence in these material things. And this road that we’ve fashioned for our descendants is barely challenged; we dare not look straight into the eye of our times and threaten these irrational and immeasurable cravings. We will always find alibis to justify our lack of concern, we will be too distracted, too immerse in this playground of pleasure to be blamed for our negligence. Yes, we care for matter too deeply, we’ve placed it at the center of our consciousness…
and we will burn for this……….
The last remnants of this bitterly afraid body, this ambiguous mind, this capsule in which the entire universe seems to exist – and outside, beyond the surface of this inexplicable skin, a blank void, a dark emptiness, a vicious silence. What in the end is the point of this unending preoccupation to make sense of what is finally unspeakable, to exist in a vast and profound space with miraculous shapes and forms, to breathe and beat a heart relentlessly while the plot of an unwritten play unravels — before these eyes full of wonder? However vainly the hours may pass, oblivious of the impending death of my surroundings, the death that will also come to this entity that strangely calls itself “I”; vain attempts to forget the inevitable, to resist the irrevocable. Had this self been able to escape permanently from the entanglements of disaster, had this ego renounced a borrowed language and survived brutally naked without philosophy, without history, without tales, without spoken love. Somewhere within the entrails of this phantasmagorical reality lies a reflection, a foundation upon which all things past, present and future are sustained, nurtured and consumed; it is a realm powerfully un-human, destitute of qualities and because of its effortless existence it remains sovereign above all things that strive. And maybe it is a joke, to conceive or imagine some sort of reality that will remain after all of us are gone, some sort of metaphysical ground by which our passing away seems less painful, less tragic. There might not be any foundation for the fear, the awe and the effort; every act, every thought, every failure is essentially groundless, and we are and will always be an unnamable race, an indefinable being.
Breathe, quite slowly…
as you caress the dim surface
follow the curves, the missing parts
again, were we incomplete
unfinished as anything in time
are you still living this minute?
I cannot blame you,
let’s wait a while… the rain may pass
it’s fine to be weak – fear is homely
that hour may come, later tonight
after so many things have torn us apart
let’s wait, cocoon life
we may soar imperfectly, rottenly
there is no choice;
live this fate
frailly fly soon
when the rain has stopped,
when the soil is dry
so we can take off … again
Beyond Language 
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