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poetry.
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Bigger Cars
(made it)
another room
la radio sola
smallest flower
Bigger Cars
(made it)
another room
la radio sola
smallest flower
Bigger Cars
(made it)
another room
la radio sola
smallest flower
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Coiled Suburbia
​
caught between night
and an imminent pale blue sun.
counting in hours lost dreams,
finding in street-light lit crevices
from these curtains, suburban silence
​
streets coiled and weary sleepers
still in chase, feet crossed
when not running
​
tomorrow, amid the viscosity
of the San Diego morning fog
cars will grunt for being awakened
and their FM radios will background
thoughts that die alone
​
computer screens will vibrate
in blue static, staring back
a clock that slows more and more
whenever its collapsed
​
violence of this sort
and masochism, move slow
rarely do we hear the bang of the gun
and so, we slowly inhale
hot cement
​
fingers extend and
in their bend our skin crumples.
Tecate
In rural Mexico, Tecate
Small town
Makeshift mass
It's been a long time
The horses neigh
And the flies become part of the blowing wind
It's hot and dry but not in this shade
The men take their hats off
And the priest, his purple ribbon
Bent, and a hole in his right sleeve from
A candle now extinguished
I remember a few phrases - should I say them?
A black dog sits underneath the altar table
And she lays to sleep
Her name's "Negra"
The priest begins
I say in a low voice,
With my hands in front,
The only phrase I remember
(It's about guilt)
A drum of 20 something chests
He speaks of Greek philosophy
But Aristotle and Plato disagreed
Still, what he says about mercy I like
One can't love without knowing
Whatever they claim to love.
A girl my age
Moves to the front
Her time to read
I'm close and she stands in front of me
Her dress sways just above her knees
I forget what she is reading
Another drum beat, this time silent
The virgin Mary bends her head down
As I glance to another girl
Blonde and perfect
We talk more about love
But did Jesus ever ...?
The long mass, from a priest I enjoyed,
Slows to its end with their custom crackers
And one more speech
About peace
Negra with fifteen flies in her face
Sound asleep
Wakes up just as this intimate, calm
But sometimes strange and drum interrupted reunion
Ends
The food comes out
Bigger cars
and screens that eat
bigger chunks of time
​
but those are not always bigger
(the screens)
longer lines: and although
their waiting is also longer
the waiting thoughts distracted, live less
it might be dehydration
in hotter days
countless shoes and shirts
and fifty something seasons
for beings who
can only tell the weather
looking down
(Made it)
​
De-wrinkled skin submerged in hanging cloth
A hammock overlooking the sea
Finally, an empty beach
Heights of only the few
Resting amongst emerald and golden Gods
A battle of decades
(Scarred time)
The palm trees the best and the biggest
Their coconuts cut already by the gardener
Who laying down in the twelve-o clock shade,
(Sacred time)
Tilts his hat down
Covid 2
Tires roll down slow
And the dogs don't bark as much
Time to see time timing itself
Colored flashing curtains
Ten beads counted ten thousand times
A can with a string not yet cut
Rusty, but still comes a voice
Some take pilgrimage
Their Mecca paved and chocked
Streams stroll as they gaze at green leaves
And yellow metal monsters imitate birds
Givin way to idols as they sleep
(singing can never be forgotten)
We are we the caterpillars in metamorphosis,
Or fruit in putrefaction
Somewhere in the ceiling corner
We'll decide
Suburbia
a sunken blue in the reflection of a lake
of a day so lazy and quiet,
nor the sun, nor the wind wore all their weight
the hills red, drying after a night bathed in fog
the white dress of the moon as it comes down
to illuminate a labyrinth suburbia
I.
quiet in the pale heat of this dessert
marrow of our bones -- metal
night of gazing to our farthest mirrors
woken by a grumbling sun
nowhere to hide, so to unwind the road
we cross a maroon, shadowless land
in which - Emilio stands, in the middle
II.
the space
the inbetween
he, like the shrub and stones, is also toasted
as his thumb points thru the window
we stop. asking if he'd like a lift
but desperation settles, as lighthing
he could not speak his own tounge
and so his hands moved towards his mouth
III.
fear left us all
on the side of the road
mas iluciones
que sabidurias
Bigger Cars
(made it)
another room
la radio sola
smallest flower
Bigger Cars
(made it)
another room
la radio sola
smallest flower
Bigger Cars
(made it)
another room
la radio sola
smallest flower
Francisco
La montaña abre el camino
de cada rÃo que busque con sed sus tierras.
Ebrio es el destino cierto,
Inquietas son las flores con tus vientos.
Las velas sufren también
cuando no brillan - cuando queman, vuelan.
Las abejas se percatan del magnetismo,
los imanes solo repelan o chocan con el mismo.
Seis zapatos y suelas sucias bailan,
el camino redondo se dobla.
El parpadeo de pequeños soles nocturnos
anuncia un provenir verde y gigante.
Nada pasa y se sienta el tiempo a pensar,
nada pasará si no se levanta.
ceniza quemada sobre mis pestañas,
el abrir de los ojos es pegajoso
y el cerrarlos aún más difÃcil.
quién eres, de dónde y a dónde vas?
vivo solo en el camino pintado
de sombras que se entrelazan.
las hormigas corren ayudantadas,
la brisa vino pero nada dejó
y te lo prometo por aquà pasó, te lo prometo.
pesan tanto las horas
y los nudos de mis hombros
como nuestra nueva isla de plásticos.
volando sobre peces ya asfixiados,
finito voy rompiendo con mitos
a puñetazos: sangre y nudillos hinchados.
el que empieza a susurrarse cómo pintar
el cielo, el que voltea alrededor para darse la vuelta
y el que siempre buscando nada encuentra, nada.
Rayos
Me gusta caer del Cielo
sin paracaÃdas
son los altares de cempasúchil
que adornan los senderos
de los que solo sus ecos
nos dejaron
quizás otros pudieron
superar la velocidad del viento
pero yo no
malditas las noches de tormenta
fueron los rayos que nunca acertaron
en su distancia
hasta que tronaron frente a ti
cierro ventanas en habitaciones vacias
donde las velas ya no me han de bailar
donde sus sudores de ceras
poco se podrán mover, sin viento
si me veo desaparezco, si te veo
te revelas, escuchar es palpitar
y viceversa
el silencio del abanico eterno
no escucha la orquestra
afuera, pájaros y trompetas
Algún tipo de inquietud.
Murmullos dentro de mi almohada
y sombras que no encuentran tu cuerpo
coches lejanos susurrando
y la Luna en sus pecas hundiéndose
la noche pronto caerá dormida
surgà de sueños con tu voz de arena,
roja y sobreponiente, el sol recostando
su cara en un horizonte azul
era poeta, era rey, era astronauta
pero he abandonado mi nave,
y mi corona; he olvidado mis letras
son tus ojos el más profundo pozo,
que bajo mientras caen mis miedos-
la sed no existe en tu mirada
y bebo de ti y de la carne de tus labios
me alimento. dudo de no dudarte
y lloro de no llorarte
tus neuronas son arqueras
que con flechas prendidas en fuego
derrumban la pared de mi ciudadela
lucha y dame guerra
para morir en paz
has matado
a tus rizos,
liso se vuelve tu vuelo
el despertador ruge
y te encuentro cada mañana
aún dormida cuando mi
prisa llega siempre a desconfiar
hasta del despertador
suenan muy raro estas aulas
vacÃas
los pasos atrabantados
el movimiento enjaulado
a las raÃces que cuestan crecer
y duelen cortar
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