how can I evaporate
the pearl of clitoris
these hands that are fat
clusters of touch
and render shine
like a drop of moon
my crash that rubs against torment
strung and the column’s
strikes upon the amalgam
I have forgotten where
this clump of noises
the moan scrapes morning
and the last mammal joy
this splatter of skin.
here is my ear
like a journey
it is still
like a window
to a blind
to peck on
I hear a
that I accept
as the shade
here is my ear
Estoy naciendo –
del nebuloso bunker
de cruel manía de risa
mis ojos son todavía ostras de pétalos suaves
semiabiertos con chispa rosa de olor
estoy siendo creado –
por hombros de cielos a primera luz
por las cuatro palabras del viento
por la mirada caída del mar temblante
estoy emergiendo –
con vestuario fecundo del desierto sobre mis pieles
el semblante de roca busca atenazar su agua
construyendo el esqueleto desde las raíces de un silencio
estoy en transición –
de cascara de vidrio a unas alas de trueno
de átomo partido a civilización de abrazos
hoy dejo de ser mancha negra en el ocaso
para turnar azul como la mística sal del cielo.
A quick translation:
I am being born –
from nebulous bunkers
and cruel frenzy of laughter
my eyes are still oysters of soft petals
half-open with rosy flint of scent
I am being created –
by shoulders of skies at first dawn
by the four words of the wind
by the fallen gaze of trembling sea
I am emerging –
with the fecund clothes of the desert over my skins
the face of rock seeking to pinch its water
constructing the skeleton from the roots of silence
I am in transition –
from husk of glass to wings of thunder
from split atom to a civilization of embraces
today I cease being black stain in the twilight
so as to turn blue like the mystical salt of the sky.
The sky: my desperate dispersion
an expansion creeping slowly in
the autumn fields of my lost war
manifest the gesture that condemns me
to seek lavishly the sighs of unnamed
saints and mystics
heavy with the saddle of onrushing years
seeping the dripping paint
like the dance of mechanical yesterdays
the grave of my birth and burying
thus a multitude of poems – astray
detached from the events of time
isolated in the nirvana of untouched perception
sky, fragment of other lives
or why November and dying
that last sullen word behind chaos
a miniature spot
whose own language
cannot participate in its description
thus the sky and the lesser me
thus a slow sleep in an immense unuttered world.
Leave whatever you are doing right now,
and do me a favor.
Look out outside your window
(I truly hope you have a window)
to some small gilded leaf in the sun.
Stare at it,
there’s nothing romantic,
poetic or beautiful
about that leaf.
It is just there
swinging with the wind
it is just there
almost too fragile
almost too irrelevant
but it is there.
It is drunk with something
it has something we don’t.
It is not brighter or duller than us
but it has more depth
than our little lives.
Be. Let whatever happens, come to pass.
To be: embraced by a field of happening.
There is nothing imperfect, even contradiction
and desire – let it all come.
Allow motes of dust to float
the heaviest pain to sink
there is nothing at all that does not belong –
let anger and irritation play their part
but release them and go on.
Close your eyes and dig deep.
Study the phenomenology of thoughts
the strange ocean of being
overpowering pain, elusive pleasures
Be. Embrace the field of happening.
This vengeance of feeble consciousness
engulfed in the wild roar of mortality’s ocean
battling hopelessly with madmen’s zest
diseased with the poison of its own vitality
secretly conjuring fantasies for eternity
dripping down the spine of Illusion herself
drowning in pleasure and soaring in pain
nurtured by the stings of challenge
greatest when forgetful of itself
crippled by the burden of its weight –
the threshold of all realities
and because, weak and coward,
possesses doom in its very heart
abandoning the mellow horizon of non-existence
captive of its deadly fear.
therefore, I am.
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