28-01-2018

28-01-2018

A veces, cuando detienes una canción

plácida

agradable

Parece que es un silencio propio de la canción

Y tu dedo ahí, tu voluntad ahí, sobre el botón de play,

es parte de la melodía

Thick coffee

28-01-2018

Thick coffee

Dense

.a syrup of caffeine and sugar

Dense and clogging like

clotted b l o o d

Sticking to my lips, embracing my throat

One

Sip

At

The

Time

HESITANTLY

One

Sip

At

The

Time

I drink.

Still the substance my tongue touches,

caresses its density, its no-shape form, its liquid body

As I swallow

l i f e 

Vuelto

11-12-17

hoy me dieron el vuelto con un billete,

específicamente, un billete de luca.

¿o se dice me pagaron el vuelto?

este billete, claro, noto que algo extraño tenía

pero aún así me apresuré en volver a guardarlo y salir de la cola

sí, del tamaño correcto,

                de la forma correcta

pero hay algo mal con el color

De hecho, es un billete peculiar

es demasiado no verde, ojo.

Mi billete está manchado con sangre.

al fin y al cabo la sangre cuenta una historia, no?

pero no sé si me interesa

porque no es poca sangre

no parece de un corte

Aún así guardé el billete

lo debo lavar

y

entonces

se irá

.

.

.

la sangre

Swirl, swirl infinite tea

11-12-17

swirl, swirl infinite tea

to make worlds and set the foundation of caverns

swirl, swirl infinite tea

to bribe warloks into doing your bidding, karma’s work

swirl, swirl infinite tea

into the ocean’s rivers of sulfur and salt

swirl, swirl infinite tea

to place souls into the surface, and make them live

swirl, swirl infinite tea

grant mortals a sip for wisdom to discern a world from another

swirl, swirl infinite tea

to keep my feet on the ground and my head away from the saw

swirl, swirl infinite tea

for  you’re the gods of old’s blood, congealed into soup

swirl, swirl infinite tea

gimme a cup to set my worlds on place

Escribir

11-12-17

escribir es algo… complejo, extraño

debo anunciar que creo que escribo

no es que trate de encontrar las palabras correctas para describir

lo que siento

el todo

o la nada

pero generalmente el punto medio

sino es ponerlas en un orden que me                    refleje,

                                               (con cierta certeza)

no es que aparezcan las palabras en mi cabeza

ni en mis manos

ni en la página, papel o digital

el problema es, francamente,

y honestamente

pero no sin un toque de miedo, lo que le da ese… sabor agrio a la mezcla

a esas palabras tiradas

el problema es que no dudo de su existencia

de los escritos, los poemas, los cuentos, las palabras

                                                               (sí dudo de la existencia de las cosas que los inspiraron

porque sospecho que muchos escritores

o depresivos, en su defecto,

sienten que una vez que está escrito en la página

uno ha causado una paradoja que

suprime la existencia de la musa)

el problema es,  y lo digo mientras vigilo mis dedos de atreverse a temblar,

es que dudo si realmente soy el autor de estas palabras

y muchas otras. 

And that too. The Seagull. From Memory

23/12/17

 So I sit here

trying to return to that place, the place where the thick smoke fills my lungs and surrounds me.

And then I’m there, but not entirely, part of me is in this room writing and floating in a flood of memories.

The twitching blue lights is before me and I stare at the city, the port and the sea, so far but close in a way.

We are there, so gone yet together in another plane

– in memory, I am a we just for this moment –

I stare at the window and there it comes, always waiting for me in memory, tracing the same loop of flight. The Seagull wants me to hoop on its mind and join it in its journey.

It takes me on flight.

I descend over the city, the twilight on my back.

There over the coast, over the port and the homes, taking in that slow rhythm

Wind on my wings, caressing my feathers, a slow motion picture of the moment.

I am engrossed in the Seagull’s flight, a step away from reality.

This is the song of this journey, of this experience I treasure and recall now, away from time and plagued by other circumstances.

I try to recall this moment from the safety of home, yearning for a place so foreign that fucks up my sense of reality

untamed locations by the hand of custom and rutine

I try to be

to be the moment in which

We fly

High in the sky

at eye level

in blue light

and the sunset in sight

We fly at the saxo’s and piano’s tune

And the loop of memory starts again

yet, incomplete,

I become the moment.

The blasted lands of the Dying Earth, year 7853021 After Ascension

02-02-2018

The blasted lands of the Dying Earth, year 7853021 After Ascension

The crowd scattered like cockroaches fleeing the second the gates opened. They swarmed the shade and left room for no one else, no room for the weak or the dying.

They left their imprint on dust floating in the air, staying up in a moment of ingravity, in seeming permanent nonmotion.

I had just arrived this universe so I didn’t know what was the significance of the sunset through radioactive clouds, of that orange light that seeped by the opening of the gates.

A fast hand dragged me to the shadows and stayed over my mouths, tracing the patterns over my lips to signal me to stay quiet.

It was my companion, my guide through this universe. A native of this quantum spectrum to take care of my naïve steps.

They lowered me and huddled me closer to them. The distinctive warmth of the inhabitants of this place grounded me into existence.

The gates did not close. The refuge was now exposed.

My companion whispered into my ear canal.

 - The scavengers are here. – they said, a coded death sentence.

I could only look at them in uncertainty.

- Many, many, many nights ago, when the bombs just fell, we made a pact with the ones who run wild in the desert.

I nodded. These were the beings I came here for.

The scavengers roamed the dirt streets of the refuge, a city made of scraps and metal. They sniffed the air and licked their lips with the only tongue they had.

Human physiology is a mystery for all ascended creatures in many universes. My companion was one too, but the refugees were tainted with radiation.

Uranium, nasty primitive stuff.

I drew back from the protective embrace of my companion and peeked through the corner.

There they were the scavengers dragging the dying out of their homes, the sick from their beds and the dead from their graves.

There is two places that became useless after the bombs fell, my companion tells me, the first are Hospitals, medicine forever forgotten, and Cemeteries, so death became restless.

The scavengers dragged their hunt out of the city, merciful to the residents and they feasted.

For all I have traveled this is my final destination, the blasted lands of the Dying Earth, where cannibals thrive in radioactive flesh.