Thursday, October 9, 2014

acojadiz del trio no nombra al frio
para eso servía la llamada de adentro.
espaldas al viento, una voz baja canta
y el trio de obreros en el cuarto sin ventana

te suplico, resbalando así,
enfrente de nuestro radiante porvenir,
y que la voz caiga adentro:
paz. una vez. que se disimule el odio.
un trueno del cielo,
el trafico continua también
todos los sonidos están lejos,
reflejados suavemente por los muros.

son casi dos, las esferas en que me encuentro,
el quien eres entremedio
en que casa soñase, quien te llevo
mas allá del ultimo desierto
tierras fértil de olivos

o de cactus, flores de espina.

Saturday, August 16, 2014

f m  

Now disappear shortly, insanely,
Nothing else will do.
Disappear fully and without any sort of hints of regret.
Do so violently, so that I feel abandoned.
Do it because you want to.

Three bridges, and we walked along, and I went back to sleep. I searched for the buildings engraved with our father Marx’s visage but the streets of Chinatown refused to reveal it to me. I walked head up looking for the marks and maybe for some other hints of things I thought you might have seen, many times, before me. Which direction should I take? This small street curved sharply from both directions – each time, one would get to the middle and think the second half would be different, darker - but of course instead of the expected dungeons one would only find the same bars and candy stores and restaurants… We’d walked it twice. Newcomer to you, but with the warmth of one memory to harm me, this searching game felt both maddening and necessary in my attempts to lose you. I mean, I still want and then wanted still to find you, but I needed to lose you, and I thought that by acting out an old tragic comedy, playing all the parts and especially in different streets and at different times, that you’d fall through the cracks, the corners of the story.  The story was Antigone. It was old enough and fragile enough to make me tremble; the comedic came from me acting it out for you in the streets, wanting to call you with it, wanting to create the image of a chagrined, slightly angry, but rather unconcerned king, talking with his hands and mouth full.  During those last weeks that I was in the city, I couldn’t stay away from Chinatown. From that loneliness because I'm still young, and I still can only imagine rather than experience the feeling of having a life partner. The first step seems to be this crossing of an emotional boundary that I'd accidentally done but in this case my duty was to undo my desire for you so I would bury my brother and call to session debates about land and rule, sovereignty and territory. My body barred from the decaying cave of Naica, repeating a refrain about stray tears and straights I wrote cheap imaginary letters, imitation. No brothers or sisters could take up the task. I stacked some books absently in a charity bookstore above the river’s mark, wishing I could summon a companion who would convincingly reorder my scruples, and then watch a few T.V. series with me. I pulled out my teeth from maidan for a salute to the already saluting Lenin, 19, then 20 o’clock. & I imagined you serving wine for the opening reception, your reserve flowing into charm. Refusing to follow through with the realisation that I was lost I persisted in the charade the length of my departure.   
I don't want you anymore, though nothing that I did had any result in the matter.