the spoils of the road

 

 Outside Humbird there is a discarded deer, torn and twisted
an unlikely leathery knot by the side of the road.
It's been picked on, fought over, claimed by dark sky circles

there are times you get the why of a messy heap of hide

that awesome simplicity, a clean state, metaphysical nonbeing
ignored, unseen
so similar to a headstone nightmare in Camden, Maine

that one reads: unwanted baby down, found by the reservoir,
since gone, stuck in a file nowhere, really, now a curiosity of what once stunned, leaving a stain in everyone, bar none

to be seen
to be aware

of the gaze
of eyes fixed

We truck on over the road - above all high on up -
watching younger people passionately performing
hand gymnastics with the wifi device of their choice

one more rare redhead, zipping by in a '50s flatbed
hauling mangled compact cars crushed into cubes
a peek of stark skin art, a stretched arm with numbers, an equation even

an older couple in simmering silence since Nebraska
he rides shotgun, magnifying glass in hand, dog-eared gazetteer

Perchance a slight turn, a momentary lapse of acknowledgment,
but more like a sleight of face, always a kid begging for the horn
regardless of the storied face, living the imaginary space we hope for

ourselves

reckon the road is reluctant
the agony of missed ramps, myriad unread signs
every fork in doubt, every longing spent

watching the girl trapped, in an old woman's body
in a fast food job, her lunch a lit cigarette, another for dessert

then a stranded house, collapsed foundations deep in a grove
a glittering willow tendrils swaying near a weeping pond

the road and the rearview
seem to share whatever's left

behind

Justine

 

Ni si quiera fue una noche completa
nomás un par de horas, el amplio sofá,
sudor y crepúsculo, aliento y cejas arqueadas
una típica tarde en la costa norte de chicago

Si el lago no fuera de agua fresca, nos traería
el sabroso salitre entre las persianas
(tengo esa mala costumbre, me lo quiero llevar
todo a los trópicos para sentir el azote del sol)

He visto atardeceres estremecedores en el medio de la nada
escuelas del siglo pasado colapsando en cámara lenta
al lado de la carretera, he respirado las costas de los grandes
lagos y contemplado la luna llena sobre sus quietas aguas

He llegado al final de la calle y me he quedado pensativo
me he sentado en un tronco en medio del bosque de abetos
y he tomado de un riachuelo rocalloso el agua más cristalina
que he visto en medio siglo, y me he lanzado desde las cumbres
pedregosas a las gélidas aguas de los lares norteños del medioeste

Pero nada le roba la angustia a esa noche incompleta
varado en la estación de la guagua cuando tú
sin ton ni son me dices, pues vamos, vente conmigo
justo antes de que se cierre la puerta, puf!, y despega
la imaginación entremezclada con memorias
y sueños de harapos y vientos alicios acariciando
las esquinas que dejamos sin doblar, para que haya
algo que nos llene con la emoción de la anticipación

será por eso que la luna se ríe de mí, plena y voraz,
llena de la luz que te llevaste a saber dónde...

pequeños tajos por todas partes

 

Yo lo resistí, pero la bota de Maggie no da tregua
Casi todo el mundo pensaba que el otro era Kojak
pero lo cierto es que MV Montalbán es un desconocido
hasta en su propia región de cataluña no lo reconocerían
un mengano más en la calle su especialidad es la oscuridad,
que según Battaille no miente y hace que todos 
los gatos sean negros entrada ya la noche

y por lo tanto la deshonestidad a veces adopta una oscuridad felina,
sincera, por lo cual te ves forzado a desconfiar del saliente.
Cortázar sin duda lo dejó por alguna esquina de sus laberintos ontológicos
sus atajos linguísticos y la vasta frente que capturó tantos cronopios;
algunas famas arden y continuan trazando las rutas imposibles
que nos llevan a las coordesordenadas pero no sin cierto
brillo - que ahora descubrimos es puro reflejo, ilusión
óptica - y las formas copulan con las esquinas sombrías
que otrora contenían los lindes de los lindos colores mentirosos.

Más sangre no siempre significa un aumento en ausencias
la sangre, como el ser humano, es única, con la posible
pero improbable excepción de los gemelos idénticos
la continuidad de los tatuajes tradicionales versus
la nueva escuela ausente y reptante tras bastidores
como lo que quiere decir todo esto de una vez por todas.

Hay sangre de amigos, de amantes, de medias naranjas,
de amigos de verdad, de amigos de la boca pa fuera,
de amantes entre las piernas solamente, casi cosificados,
y hay sangre para cada uno de los personajes de nuestra peli
sin pena ni olvido para que se los chupe la tierra y
la desmemoria síntoma de la pos-pos guerras de lío
de oil de apostarlo todo un día como hoy no hay otro, eh ma?

un día como hoy no hay otro...

long time listener, firs time caller

 

hi, so you should know right off the bat that I may get cut off any second... I'm driving through West  Texas and service out here is spotty at best, but I've been listening for so long now, and I've always wanted to call in but I never really got the guts to do so, you know how it is, when you settle into that all encompassing daily routine, almost homelike, but more often than not not entirely welcoming... does that make any sense?

does it?

sometimes I wonder if the light out here changes things, not in a huge one day way, but more as a prolonged exposure to the sun's rays, roasting your thoughts, tweaking your senses, sharpening the edges around you, out in the dusty sunset along with all the bright colored insects splattered all over the windshield. I think something dark and hairy is scurrying somewhere in the rocks, or maybe it's feathery and it takes off from the side of the road.

Last night we made a careful fire up in the Morongo Valley, it crackled dangerously and spewed sparks aloft. Fortunately the wind was like a soft spoken lover, barely rustling the hairs on your arms and back... Falling asleep to the ashy embers snapping and popping seemed like the thing to do, but as soon as the night crept farther along and I finally entered REM sleep, well, I was being forced by two cops to kill someone in my dream. I'd never seen them before and yet here I was looking them in the eye and trying to figure out what would be the most decisive blow to render them harmless. It didn't feel like a nightmare at the time, but it was far from a pleasant reverie, quite the contrary, the stress levels were off the charts...

what the desert sun giveth the night time taketh away
the stray life may not be for everybody, but we're
rich when we have the whole world to walk around

out here we're dust american dust

OTR

cuando la mar acecha al fondo del callejón y la sombra del Getty
es otro adefesio oscuro incrustado sobre la loma
recordaré que por aquí vivía un trotasueños impaciente
un colorao que trató cuatro veces antes de recostarse
bajo el árbol más grande del bulevar, dedos de madera
que salen de la tierra para acusar al sol, la luna, los astros
y todos los otros testigos que no hicieron nada por la matria

si cierro los ojos a veces llego antes de que las excusas
se vuelvan hemorragia y verborrea, ese escándalo vegetal
y surrepticio que me agarra por los tobillos y no me suelta
no me extrañaría tanto si no fuera porque al dejar mi marca 
a lo largo del camino, se me olvidó documentar lo que sentí
cuando tus logros superaron la barrera cibernética con ese tumbao
viral que trajiste desde los 80s a través de los 90s para dejarlo
morir al pie de la segunda semana de spetiembre cuando
la gran manzana cayó de rodillas ante todo el mundo.

pero las más de la veces sólo cruzo la ciudad por la mañaña
cuando llega la tarde ya estoy en la carretera, que son muchas
pero una a la misma vez porque todos los caminos dialogan,
conspiran, se cruzan y se unen para por fin llegar descalzo,
hambriento, y con esa curiosidad por las vidas ajenas que
sólo la velocidad puede satisfacer de manera consecuente.

always on me

 you wrote

            spend the first night with the fam

            we can travel to Vieques after we drop X at the airport 

it's the morning that you gotta watch out for

Sunday, to be precise, because it is

precisely how you never show up

which throws everything into a spin

you wrote

            do not worry upon arrival

            it is futile to worry, an exercise in stillness

and proceeded to visualize every possible scenario

with me arriving on both Friday and Saturday of course

but it never ever crossed your mind i would never show

so you sat there waiting and waiting followed by more waiting

always on me

ahorafobia

...del Diccionario de Fobias Hermenéuticas y Petit Malls

ahorafobia:

1. f. Med.  En ese mundo esotérico de las ciencias biológicas, se refiere a aquel padecimiento de parálisis ante lo cotidianamente inmediato. El que sufre de ahorafobia suele encontrarse firmemente plantado en el presente junto a una lúgubre premonición de que algo espantoso está por acontecer. No se debe confundir con la susodicha fechamanía, definida como la emoción de tener un inexorable pierde ante una oportunidad o fechoría de corte accidental - momentánea - pero que promete inconmensurables beneficios. Aunque en épocas pasadas no se ha documentado gran incidencia de la ahorafobia, el fenómeno sicuantrópico tuvo su máximo apogeo poco después de que el Instituto de la Temponáutica y el Porvenir iniciara su extenso programa de traslapación temporal circa 2020 EM.

Lincoln, NE

poco a poco, por lo general jueves en la tarde
o sábados al mediodía, me curaste una rodilla
la paciencia de tus dedos y el calor de tus pausas
obraron su típica magia en cuestión de instantes

todo era instantes en tu diariovivir, tu procesión
por las esquinas estallando a colores y deteniéndote
ante los desbocados, los que han perdido todos
sus colores, la ralea de inconformes y doblados,
pero sedientos de eso que destilas con tanto cuidado
y difundes con una profunda calma oceánica

andrea taconea las aceras y retumban los pasos
concatenan las miradas y reposan las palmas
las manos y la insistencia digital que palpa
y diagnostica, incisiva y contundente, como
suelen ser los contactos decisivos que sorprenden
con la luz de un nuevo día asomándose por encima
del espejo roto, óptica que triplica los misterios
y suaviza la sombra desos ojos achinados por el viento

lo que recuerdo de ti es lo que perdí:
la vergüenza, el miedo, la culpa, la pregunta
lo que olvido en tu ausencia es el descanso
la luna, la respuesta, la sensación del frío

lo que sí sé es que por alguna irresistible sinrazón
una noche sin luna compartimos nuestros secretos

Title TK

You told me I was like a year abroad
A place where you grasp the rudiments of speech, but still have to gesture a lot. There are those who stare awkwardly, clock their heads to the side in grotesque obviousness. You can almost hear them gasp.

I countered with a real injury, the unavoidable handicap: a limp, a slight reluctance. A deep breath. It is then that the cats appear, working their sparkly, static chemistry. My eyes are too lazy to take anything in anyways, but my ears never miss a beat.

Then Fall all over again. Leaflike, your foliage drops away, leaving you stark against the window, city lights licking your face, dancing in your eyes. I get it. But I let it go and go on. It will soon be too cold to stand outside, to walk everywhere we like. Maybe the snow will bury the smell of your effortless presence. It is the distinct fragrance of wanting it all in such a short time.

Decades will topple all over each other, making the passage of time labor intensive. It never works to look over your shoulder, it's hard to see the faces in those little paper squares. But it's so easy to hear you humming somewhere behind, where we last held it steady, as if the stakes couldn't have been higher. I can never quite put my finger on the exact tune.

From up here it looks perfect. I suppose the trick would be to fly.
Ready?
Watch me.

la memoria es un arrecife

piedra recubierta de vida, de fuego, de mar
son los restos solidificados de lo acontecido
entre estertores de miedo y emoción, un clímax
solapado y traslapado entre la roca endurecida
de los remordimientos y la abundancia de los quizás

olas que murmuran todos los nombres y sus dos apellidos
el constante embate de un líquido agrio ya a estas alturas
pero que en su momento fue néctar, sustento, una suerte
de maná escurridizo - el fantasma detrás del espejo sonríe
y detiene a tu madre, las palabras de tu padre hechas trizas
marullo que regresa una y otra vez para acumularse a tus pies

si el pasado es otra isla más en este archipiélago que zozobra
podríamos volver a zambullirnos en todas las veces que no
encontramos como coincidir sin reincidir en los dolores
típicos del invierno recurrente que marchita la arena
donde me siento a esperar otra marejada de lo que fuimos

empty rest stops and crowded truck stops

ball bearings grinding inside the casing
stress and fatigue take their toll
nothing new here
we try to level with each other, but
eye to eye is not something you do
as for myself, fear's my specialty

when the back wheel locks up
i drop the bike, i remember that corner
of my bed, my new bed without your form
for all its complexity, there's no doubt
the problem will be found to be nothing but

behind us now, mixed in with our mutual
propensity for dreaming out of bounds
my wallowing in disbelief, your dismissal
of the way i've meandered back nowhere
safe nor good, quite a waste, in fact

because i am the reason for your misery
because i am what you are avoiding to become
because with tears in your eyes you lied to me

all over again and again over their names
their reasons for sharing your bed
the spontaneity inside the boyz room
not as long ago as i expected it to be

perhaps i will be going nowhere tonight
but tomorrow promises to rid me
of the toxic wanting more of the same

all the images i have left of you don't even make a whole handful

today
breaks before another evening wear
sees no street, no outdoors, no rain on a friday
night falls apart like so many times before
today

i finally realize there's no glitter
no sequins, no formal attire for tonight's act
which is a monologue, an interior discourse
no one will so much as register once
let alone multiple times
today

there's nobody but me left alone
when leaving's the thing to do now
between words, between repetitions
of all the things you only dared to say
after i was gone at last: "i don't wanna
end up like you!" with tears like shattered glass
for emphasis, for all the times that it felt real

you
 and
  me

every single day
that goes by with minimum effort
and maximum results, like scratching
your name on my skin like a tag
turned inside out for all to see that
today

it is just me and the weight of winters
passing over what we could become
if only today, of all days, we settle
for a true story of how we traded keys
shelter from bedbugs, from the lying
down to the very last phone conversation
going straight to voicemail

today
you decided to leave a message, a song
the one i sang for you again and again
the words scattered quickly, like a treeful
of ghost birds flying off into the pixelated
skies all at once at the slamming of a door
the opening of eyes, the stark realization that
today
there's a strong sense of salt exploding
with every wave breaking and quenching
the thirst of youth, the shocking truth of our
different numbers, the years that went by
from my birth to your summer birthday

i don't think i told you i lost all the photos
of the past two years -- our years, your bed
-- they are all gone, like memories from
a very long time ago, when there were no real
ways to recall the gender of the twins that
would never be but that i still tried to become
with you, through all the yesterdays worth
keeping for future reference, when the day comes
and all my stories are finally finished, done
save for the ones we could've told
but
opted not to
for fear is my artform

it wouldn't hurt if it was just the photos
if it had just been you, and not everyone else

all the relatives, sisters, neighbors, classmates
suburbanites, visitors, passersby, onlookers
colleagues, coworkers, fellow scribblers
storytellers, weavers, and dreamers
characters from la banda, la raza
el corillo, the crew, the gang, and the entire cast
including the chance encounters
the not-so-coincidental-acquaintances
friends, yes, friends, extended family
bystanders and witnesses called forth

all
gone
all
elsewhere
fortunately
in spite of me
or because of something i said
i did, i wrote, i yelled
or screamed
simply
today
here
now
me
i
refuse
to forget

tonight
you will lie
with him
and i will
decide,
once again
to stay in

i want to make the most out of the three weeks left in my lease

improvisación en torno a la pluralidad del apoyo involuntario

Quisimos voltear el mundo;
que quede claro no lo queremos cambiar
nos encanta tal cual
El tema es uno de perspectiva
cosas de gradaciones, contrastes
compulsiones, matices de la percepción
Los síntomas del silencio nunca
se manifiestan de inmediato --
en cambio, la vergüenza no da tregua
es absoluta y despiadada --
sin cuartel ni respiro
Con el tiempo ya ni los colores
son los mismos. Los vínculos
filiales fomentaron, si no todas,
el monto de las transgresiones
que quedaron en evidencia

Sabemos a ciencia cierta
que sobrevivir es la peor condena

No son pocas las veces que fantaseamos
sucumbimos a la exquisita ilusión
de burlarlo todo, sin pausa ni reposo
con tal de arribar más allá de la supervivencia

Repito no queremos cambiar
el mundo sólo voltearlo nomás
Con partirlo en trocitos suculentos
nos basta y nos sobra, sospechamos
sí, anticipamos por fin una tábula rasa
mucho más productiva que la esperanza

breakfast in west memphis, arkansas

some microwaved soup and chocolate milk
an ill-suited plastic spoon, not much of a belly
dreams of third coast conquests
and downriver runs into each other

there's a special quality to the air on the road
and an even weirder sense of loss within the constant hum
in lot lizard country, the safety of trees is scant, if at all
that feeling of lonesomeness seeps into every pore

the road is a lonely companion, without much talk
it sits quietly by your side, judging and mocking
i really only wish to show you the things i've seen,
if only momentarily; a quiet coyote patiently
waiting for a lull in traffic; clouds parting swiftly
stars poking their curious, faint light, dancing
in the distance, the same distance between me and the world
the moon, the sun, and the galactic cannibals that abound

i want to tell you about the 80 dreams I lost on the east side
of kansas city, to a man named Paper, or how that crusty hippie
crushed whatever desires i still had midthrough memphis,
and how Floyd, fortunately, pulled up next to me and secured
my load, and how i saw his truck in the oasis of the plains,
tucked in between so many others, noisily idling and coughing fumes

so many wants turned into so many other things to crave
unable to settle for the slow going, with the white Tesla
zipping by, followed by a Porsche, black of course, and with
Hawaii plates... what are the chances of that?

of a murmur of starlings soaring aloft like all the desires
i laid at your feet in offering, before leaving once again
how they soar in unison, much like the voices in my life
quietly morphing into all the names i've been called
all the little affectations of that awkward longing

you must think it's no big deal, to dream a house
a wraparound chain of commitments that end up
in a plastic bowl of microwaved soup
an ill-suited plastic spoon, cheap formica
and a sideways look from the attendant

some absences are heavier than others
even if they fill the very air you breathe
out on the road, breakfast is not limited to food

one last one

one is sleeping somewhere else
another one is walking,
and one is at home inside my mind

inside in as many nights as it was possible
without the benefit of a doubtless falling
squarely within the framework of a trance
there was a particular moment, a point worth
making in between your days off, your sheets
your way of letting me know this is something
of a beautiful mistake, an unforeseen overexposure
the type of mistake you hold onto just because

one is sleeping in my mind
another one is home
and one is walking somewhere else

three time's the charm, though no one
seems to be counting, some one is keeping
track of all the missed opportunities
afforded by chance and circumstance
only to realize there's no such luck
once you let it sink to the bottom

one is home sleeping
another one walks out of my mind
and one is left somewhere else

Pecas

it's 9 o'clock and the room is filled
w/ stiff air, typical of a roomful of strangers
for the most part
eyes are tossed this way and that
in every direction, never lingering anywhere long enough
to disarm that peripheral edginess on our faces

better this way, this is an important meeting
these people are here seeking relevance, reason
a stage. we will share our fears soon enough
quell that insidious thirst for community, however
fleeting -- we're actors, we aim to live truthfully
in the imaginary landscape of our choosing

(this has all happened before, as it will most likely
happen again -- minds meeting, intellects toying
w/ each other, bodies touching, barely...)

and then
     Freckles
     yeah, you and your freckles
     enough of them to raise the bar and lift a wall
     into which i slam w/ all the speed of a lifetime
     spent in the vacuum of their absence

Freckles
     as if you were made of a myriad dotted "I"'s
     but forgot the stems back home when you left
     or is it shafts? or trunks? or whatever
     it is obvious the dots are what's important
     irreplaceable, because each one is as unique
     as a snowflake, as if it were always glorious
     winter all over you and you're covered in

Snowfreckles
     so many of them yet not quite enough
     like all those points of interest on the map
     of your life -- one for each time your heart
     skipped a beat, or fluttered over someone

Freckles
     in pairs, in threes, and quadrupled
     like a hundred thousand protesters against
     emptiness viewed from far above, forming
     small groups and crowding like rioters celebrating
     your skin, their world, my road, my
     neverending road into what is you

Freckles
     one for every time i failed to see you, for
      all these days i never knew of you, of this
      wondrous universe of freckles in every shape,
      form & color... well okay, maybe not color,
      but you know what i mean

Freckles
     in every nook and cranny of you, just as
     there were - at least one - on every friend
     that's OD'd, every lover that's squeezed a little
     too tight, everyone that has pushed, pulled, and
     whacked me in the direction i'm going

Freckles
     because there are so many that we could
     build pyramids w/ them, monuments to our
     longing that will draw all like minded freckles
     into our fold to admire and ooooh, aaaaah
     for milenia to come, all the freckles like water-
     melon seeds we can use to build our own
     world in watermelon freckles like my life
     is now done in watermelon freckles of you

And we're only talking of the ones you can see
when you're fully dressed - imagine the possibilities
of those netherfreckles that sustain your mysteries
my yearning, our overlapping freckled futures

Pecas - spanish for freckles
as well as "you sin" in the present tense
pecas de corazón, pecas de medianoche, pecas de mujer
you sweet, sweet sin tracing a cartography of impossible
ways out of me and into you

it is one minute past 9 and your freckles have
rendered this oh so serious meeting pointless
useless, irrelevant in the grand scheme of things

your freckles are here
everything else is just parking

because there is nothing i wouldn't do
for just one of your freckles, now
i finally understand how a woman's body
w/out freckles is like the nightsky w/out stars

de rotas

lo mejor, de entrada, es ver todo lo malo
aunque también

por aquello de que en guerra avisada, 

cualquier trinchera

basta en el campo de batalla o del amor

let me tell you about my broken days, 

let me tell you about my breaking daze

perchance an idea, una noche, una nube

asuma, tal vez, 

su forma concreta once and for all

at last, avoiding

the usual half-assed, half-baked fate, 

the nowhere-fast-enough paja mental

best case scenario

los días tripping over each other

la implacable monotonía

la vida siempre en otra parte, 

the grass is always greener

mientras la desidia se hace rutina,

el destino como desatino habitual

barren days 

very much like los años barridos 

debajo de la alfombra

yea, broken, 

broke ass

you know what they do in japan 

with broken china?

they use gold, 

yeah, i know you know, 

i know you, i'd bet

because it sure seems like you know me, 

me conoces de verdad.

la amenaza de los buenos tiempos, 

la incredulidad rampante

mares no, océanos of doubt, heavy, oppressive doubting, constante

sonante, la misma cantaleta freudiana, nacional, emocional -

pues sí, porque ni carro tengo, 

the walk is all i got

roto, broken, o sino como cualquier roto, 

las famosas trincheras

desta guerra sin cuartel, sin descanso, singular y plural at the same time

yeah, talk about broken

hablando de rotos

------

pos-data-entry:

la palabra que está ausente de manera inexplicable le sirve de título

failure, 

     fracaso, 

           derrota, 

                   desilusión, 

                            desengaño

welcome to  my life

the event is your reality

truly broken

roto

the art of hugging

And then someone sends an awkward text,
the device rattles and vibrates. These are perilous times
astrologically speaking, a mercurial retrograde is enough
to provoke a reluctant response
quietly past midnight. This i know,
because i was there in spirit to disappoint them all once again.
It's really okay, she said, there will be some left over
for tomorrow. It was my turn to walk away
and show off what a driven walker I've become.

There is more than enough time
for the guesswork needed to unravel the night.
As the snow drifts in and out of focus another one
asks how long we've been waiting. Public transportation
is the perfect metaphor for inspiration. There's never
the right color ink to comment
on the margins, to underline the needs
and wants of everyone involved. Might
as well dog-ear the pages we'll return
to later. Believe me, I've done this before. We are
all heading in the same direction.

We then discuss earnestly the geography
between us when we realize we've missed
a lot more than deadlines. He is welcoming
and gone, but manages to explain it all
really clearly. Make no mistake
about it, the map is inaccurate.
The photograph is lost, tucked away
between a stranger's pages. Forget the rage
contained between buildings, the colors
are off anyways, the memory overexposed.
Feeling your breath on my neck, after all,
will seem like the most natural thing in the world.

Inopia

La entrada de Inopia es también su salida, pero no quiere decir que solo haya una. Como toda ciudad murada madura, tiene más de una, medio puñado para ser exactos. Son todas las que necesita Inopia, ciudad de dudas, criadero de sueños errantes, depósito de tal veces. Lo que pudo haber sido va a morir a la in(al)can(z)sable Inopia, donde se cruzan los senderos incompletos. Cuentan que si retomas uno de los senderos incompletos, terminas fuera de la ciudad y encuentras sólo la salida. Con la entrada perdida, no se puede más que seguir. Eso no quiere decir que las probabilidades de caminos y complicidades consecuentes obsesionen al viajero. Aún los que nunca han estado en Inopia expresan cierta nostalgia por la sombra de sus caletas y callejones sin salida. No es difícil pasar muy cerca de la ciudad sin dar con ella. Se puede estar tan cerca como para escuchar su bullicio y soñarla perfectamente, pero sin pisar su suelo. Más allá del saludo, el viajero llega Asabiendas sin nunca haberse adentrado de verdad en Inopia.

  

este lecho zozobra

a veces esta cama es una isla remota
ignota
un escollo apenas visible por entre
la marea de algodón y plumas de ganso

todavía conserva las marcas de otra presencia
otro cuerpo que zozobra entre las almohadas
en el preciso instante en que nos separaron
los resentimientos a flor de anoche

cada vez que amanece juro
por lo más profano
que no guardo nada de ti

solo el triste naufragio
de lo que no te atreviste a decir

a short story about the end of his story

Things are different now. Everything is, really, when it comes down to it. They are behind all these changes. Not in any perceptible nor quantifiable way, no, it is all much more subtle. Memories were the first telltale signs; Deyvid and I no longer shared many of our lifelong memories, after all, we'd known each other our entire lives. Certain childhood transgressions became debatable, questionable even, in his opinion. Apparently, he hadn't participated in the many voyeuristic expeditions that marked the onset of our teenage years. They had revolved around three particular houses; the homes of the two best looking girls on our street and that of the retired armed forces bigshot, always dark and full of boxes crammed with government documents. Apparently I had done so on my own, even though I have the distinct recollection of Deyvid pointing out the crazy veteran's house, one street over. I'd always preferred creeping around the girls' abodes.

If it had all been about misplaced memories, perhaps I'd have never thought twice about any of it. But then the disappearances begun. At first, they were explained away with the typical crap: so and so joined the Navy, the weird family behind Deyvid's house relocated stateside, a series of unfortunate car crashes had culled most family members five houses down, and so forth. After that, the mosquitoes took most of the blame; dengue and a handful of exotic tropical diseases spread throughout the island, causing amnesia and altering people's behaviors. The papers rarely delve into any of it, favoring instead the usual police blotter and violent ghetto stories. I seemed to be the only one noticing the steady decline in population, but as soon as I brought it up in conversation, even my closest friends like Deyvid made fun of my 'paranoid' delusions.

Then the acne onslaught. All around me, including Deyvid, whose darker complexion had seemed to spare him the worst in years past. I was alone at home one night - folks were at someone's wedding or something - and this big old blackhead was really itching and making me miserable. Deyvid was supposed to stop by to pick me up to go to his friend's evening pool party. There weren't that many pools in the neighborhood and everybody was expected to attend. So I did the only thing I could do, I tried to pop it.

I guess trying is the wrong word, since I was successful. It was much easier than I expected and once I had the blackhead on the tip of my finger, the itching completely stopped. Then it started moving, the blackhead. Obviously I was dumbfounded, frozen right where I stood in shock. It seemed groggy or something, at first, because it then spread its unbelievably tiny wings and took off. It flew like a hummingbird, hovering and executing precise movements. It hovered for a second before my eyes - was it clocking me?

And then there were two. Then three. All of them clocking me?!? I could feel how they were trying to tell me something. But maybe it was not me they meant to communicate with. Another spot on my face began to itch. And one on my arm too, which looked like a mosquito bite.

It's not the first time it happens, I'm sure, though I have no real recollection of it happening before. I just know it. I'm tired of finding myself staring into the mirror and forgetting what I was doing right before.

That's why I've begun writing about it. This time, though, I'm not losing the notebook.

Yes

sounds like a nombre, quizás por eso
es que i followed your lead
es un gut reaction - un reflex
a better way to succumb sin pensarlo
and again, la cuestión del pozo
(entre los pájaros y la flecha)
we drink local
porque no hay otra
y lo más seguro es Yess

Stahl Ihr Gesicht ()steel your face()

it was during fall, of course
amidst the swirling colors
of days toppling one over the other
the connecting blocks of the most
logical of puzzles like arms
around each other held firmly

not too tight, plenty
of breathing room
plenty of your friends
because plenty
was your ongoing supply

can you see yourself
in my words or detect
your smell in my yarns?

the realization you are gone
does little to remove you from
what little is left of this
music library with all your songs

somehow it doesn't surprise me
how soft your steel smile became

i hum and scream and wonder why
we never told each other
the real story of our shared fall

again the colors swirl
and whisper and trace
the fault lines of the bed
that exploded between us

i had no idea you'd leave
me shipwrecked and smiling

memories of these appearances

-->

there is an incredibly strong desire to hope for one
for one would be convenient in the way a name is
yet, more often than not, the name's the first thing to go
or the last to actually matter, and, or perhaps though
definitely but, in some cases, simply a magnificent lie

sometimes it wasn't even memorable, the name

never said or uttered because there was really no need
not even my own, since i was sometimes not even asked
and when i think about it, those were the most intense
secluded moments of all, when our voices finally failed

those times that had nothing to do with words

let alone a name, an unexpected mistake in pronunciation
an odd way of remembering the way your body looked under
the sheets, a thought from elsewhere, a single note heard clearly
but nowhere near the force of impact, of our mutual accident

because sooner or later they all disappeared
without numbers, of course, without even the slightest strip
of paper with letters, numbers, dashes, and flourishes
tucked away in a drawer, a coin pocket, a hidden sleeve

:

- the first one was twice my age, at least
a foreign accent to boot, but the same tongue
warm as every afternoon on the island
with a handful of witnesses, unwanted
unavoidable and dirty, like the sheets
like i always can't help but remember it

-then there were many names behind her
names like kisses in a darkened playground
but she was pale like a bloated moon
obscured by clouds, younger yet more experienced
always waiting for me in the housekeeper's
quarters by the pool, eyes the color of empty
bottles--it was she who taught me
the language of skin and how to wake up
without letting the dream dry completely out

-an ocean later, i found one of three at the far side
of a city map, but the city was neither hers
nor mine; still, it belonged to us for days on end.
we wrote each other letters back then and it blew us
away to find out we in fact corresponded seamlessly
but again, geography proved too overwhelming

-distance would define her, as in an entire world
between her eyes, her ears, her arms, her legs
the landscape was a table that felt like a stove
where she altered my shape with her hands
and asked me “where to?” with the crack of dawn
i was working as a bus boy at the time
and although she was a regular, never saw her again

-behind the counter though, i dreamed and coveted
her eyes devouring pages and pages and her body
hiding under long skirts like drapes drawn over windows
many years later and, again, as many letters written
i found her in california, i saw her in the flesh
but by then it was much too late for anything more
after all that trouble, a simple hug would just have to do

-it was more a house than anything else
afloat in a sea of rocks, pines, winding roads
with many doors, many places to hide
and they all have different names, different
stories about so many different places they’d been
each one more time for memory’s sake, a form of truce
they all cracked their doors and a couple came out to see me go

-alleyways and clearings in the woods, an occasional
trailer without heat, an abandoned bus among the firs
an impulse to fall together and see how far we’d made it
many years apart, yet periodical relapses into wanting
realizing this is where we will be for the time being
everything reduced to a brief phone call in the night
and the same ending repeating itself all over again, and again

epilogue

years like wild animals rushing through the woods
a coast unlike any other, something amiss with the air
long blonde hair falling like so many tears of joy
of not knowing when, if ever, it will all unfold once more
within the indoor twilight of a desperate eve, some
ready to go, others, like myself, finally comfortable
in that soft corner between your neck and shoulder
needing nothing more than to see this night through

the wisdom and the crumble

 I
your leadership qualities will shine soon
and there's a candle burning
because there's no power

only fire

and all the bullshit
crumbling elegantly
around a handful of humans

II
nanobes, neurons
and the big bang in her eyes
were all part of the conversation

but the songs

crackled, hissed
and boomed through the living
room full of traveling, grace

emilia

Las palabras llegaron al tercer día
el roce desde mucho antes --
quiero que sepas a quenepa
a manzana, a árbol de navidad.

Pero cuando el sol se esconda,
como suele suceder
y no pare de llover, entonces
es hora de volver
de sentarse
de prevenir que se moje
la madera; el fuego es obligatorio

el fuego no cede
sino crepita
salta
agrede

luego, Emilia.
así, con punto final,
porque por más fuego
que tuvieran sus ojos,
el momento de la quemadura
fue fugaz
mordaz
inclemente
como suelen ser los fuegos
en los putos cielos

lo peor de todo
es que no me dejó ir,
no me soltó. su voz
compuso el hechizo
del no poder moverme
del no poder zafarme

sacudirme
escapar

tal es la dicha del viajero
del caminante
del que simplemente pasa por ahí
y se tropieza con una ilusión primitiva
antigua
de un pretérito imperfecto
cautivo por la frescura
de un semblante claro
sereno y final

hoy no podemos entretener al tedio
de la soledad, hoy ya es tarde
para volver a empezar.
el comienzo quedó diluido
por el constante movimiento

si tan solo hubiese una pared
una muralla
un final
un lugar en el cual restrallarme
y descansar sobre el color de sus ojos

i wanted to write you a letter

 it always takes me some time to make up my mind, especially when it comes to language: Español or English? and then, the mind does not end made up, it just happens, seemingly out of my control, like so many other choices that aren't revealed as choices until much, much later

when it is okay to pause, roll another one - these days it's just not feasible to buy them all rolled up and ready to go - and think about the last time i read some of your words, or that other moment, jam packed with Drama and fabulousity, or so you claimed, while wishing me far, far away

back to that moment when it all went south, as if it was ever going any other way at all; the west may sound better and rhyme, but the south is where it all comes to a head and the mess is always better. there were times when i thought it would have to make sense - the motion, the passing, the ongoings going on

the one that got away back for more, the perils of online night visitations, to google or not to google, there must be a video of it somewhere... perchance the darkest web, where i know not how to tread, much like your constant screams and fists raised up to the stars, the moon, the big black nothingness

that always seemed to arrive just in time to soften the edges and hide the ugliness at arm's length away, on a night table, a round table, a periodic table of failed forays into matter, bodies i just can't remember in an empty, darkened house, pinky toes in for the pain

and when it finally dawns on me and i find myself staring out the window, confused by what i always expected to see out there, i know the memory resurfaces now for a reason that i will never be able to pinpoint with any degree of accuracy, let alone find your name where it was written so long ago.

¿guat?

cierro los ojos y empujo el sueño hasta lo más hondo
que conozco de ti, de tu rebelde insistencia
gimes, pero no eres tú, es mi mente
es mi carencia embistiendo contra el alba
con el despertar de tus pechos - néctar de sueño
nata de anhelo - aquí, donde tu molicie
es primero puerta y luego ventana
escenario para una defenestración eufórica

before and after Chi

before

the oyster was in your hand, the tickets in mine, the wind blew sideways – trying to tell us something? steaming coffee and the desire to go, go, go, the grand ol’ cliché, burning out like something out of the sky, the same sky that turns overcast or becomes a whiteout, depending on where you stand, but always above like some sloppy foreshadowing before we get down to business.

after a while, there weren’t many more left. mostly those who had nowhere to go, really, except for maybe an all-night diner, a bridge somewhere crossing over to elsewhere, leading up to that high lookout point, where it all looks perfect, like it always does from far away in that quiet stillness before it all rushes down into your center. a center you had no idea pulsated at night when you slept and gave out when the sun finally came up.

there were others, of course, as there always are, out and about. the smokers, the shooters, the sniffers, the swiggers, the lookers, the undecided, the puppies that follow you everywhere… they are all there when you wake up, with things sticking out from where they shouldn’t, from where they were supposed to remain hidden, out of sight. next thing you know gravity has been lording over us all for some time now, pulling us down, further down, where we never know what we’ll run into. It doesn’t matter how low we go, there always seems to be lower still to go. but naturally, at that point, the crowd has thinned out completely. then it’s only you, looking up at nothing you can actually grasp or understand. and that’s when you realize you’ve run out of cigarettes.

after

everything has a certain crisp to its edges, a brightness that must come from somewhere. after so many dreams, so many visions, and so many dives into our own ocean of unfathomable depths, well, there’s a light, isn’t it there? all bright and shit, as if morning took everyone by surprise. the beer’s too warm, the coffee’s cold – not nice, like iced coffee, more like tap coffee – and we are all sticky from whatever took place the night before; either no one remembers or they just rather not talk about it.

but there’s no need to look back, it’s always better to walk with your back to the sun. and a walker is what I’ve become, after so many sleepless roads, so many ruffled wants, and after so many times caught under your rain, the wind of your movements – your being plural, your being the night atop a glass tower in Chicago, resting against the cold glass overlooking everything but us, your being that horrible taxi becoming smaller and smaller, your being your middle finger, slowly unfolded in front of that devastating smile, your being that sunset, or this sunrise, or those shooting stars blazing unanimously in our night, your being all those porches, balconies, fire escapes, strange artists’ loft, wide open rooftops, the missing salt from our common coast…

so I traded your memories for this endless tripping over each other, failed pleasantries, and unexpected blackouts. it is not us who age, it’s our livers. and no matter where you end up, there’s always a hungry cat sitting by the food bowl, clocking you like a spurned lover before slamming the door. isn’t it odd how that cat can stare right through to you and sniff around in your deepest, darkest memory? so I’ve traded those neverending city treks for the scant solace of my own basement, my own hole in the ground. there are occasional transgressions, I admit, but nothing like you all saw back on that other land, the one behind, the one that defies the myth of the eternal return. there’s no real sense now of finding any of it out, only intuition of what it would be like.

and wouldn’t we all want to know what it’s like

Olivia y las demás

Olivia pours the coffee, steams our patience, mixes our expectations and provides us with the operative metaphor; there is much to consider in the empty cup, the frothy hotness, the out of our hands, tepid outcome. Olivia is not the slick image that pours from our thoughts, nor the star burning up over our heads.

She is simply the roommate, the one who locks and shuts off the lights before leaving. She will be here almost every day this week, because she is a working roommate, an independent roommate, a special kind of roommate.

And that’s just Olivia. There’re others, each with with their own swing, their own beat, their own escape route. There were days when we would cross, or bump, or perhaps it was a bit more than a bump, a la Allison, circa Manhattan 1994, under the Roosevelt Island cable car and an overcast sense of nowhere, fast. Her words, my mistakes, a confabulation with no respite. Disease ensued, planes took off, memories crashed and had to be rebooted, a new sense of nowhere arose. And her name is unknown. Forever Lost. Like a smile, fleeting between stations.

I called her Vera, but that was never her real name.

The many Emilies have also made somewhat of an appearance towards the end. On the sidelines, as observers, as witnesses, really, for then things got a little tense, then later huge, out of proportions, oppressive even. Things. Lost and safe, around your neck or your fingers, in your pockets. Broken pieces of it in every corner you happen to look in.

Several Annas showed up even later than that, which was never really the end, and shared their vowels with many other latecomers, a occasional “L,” not capitalized liked you’d think, but lower case, almost a one.

The oldest reduction, the final relief. One. Here. Now.

Nowhere all over again. Postings and faraway musings interfere, but ultimately will only add color, if that. You will not engage the same erroneous ways, there are always new ones, without a net, out there, where there are no warrantees. Only corners, to cut, to make your own, to get to know yourself. To lay the groundwork for what will come much later, when the names matter not so much.

Some will remain, like H. Both of them, the real and the one inside, running through my veins. But the one that actually matters lies elsewhere, as much of life does, giving off signs of life without much continuity. An afterthought, one that will permeate, hopefully even mutate whatever is left into something new.

To be oneself again.

one-night-run (but it really took years)

there was the time I got lost in another country and three whatifs crashed into me as that awful car sped away.

i caught the first whiff of your signature scent

somewhere outside cleveland after dusk

there was a certain twang to your essence

not unlike a tense guitar string screaming

quietly with finger picking precision back

in the lounge car with the other passengers

one window looks out into our ignorance

a rooftop is always in play,

the Thunder Carrot, the Pixie, the Triplets

of Railville come alive past midnight

there is no singing this time around

but there are spirits lifted, raised

like a glass of wine, a shot of vodka,

a splash of that cheap whiskey

while we all drink to the next stop

there was another time when I was riding in the back of a VW bus while the couple who owned it argued up front. that was somewhere in the eastern seaboard, south of DC if my memory serves me right.

which it usually doesn't,

like the time when your hard edges caught the small of my knee as i rounded the corner trying to find my way out of another senseless night, out of another bed, out of this clever combination of evasion and want. tell me, are we really this stuck up in our own fears that we cannot abide to accept? i sometimes drown in your ocean and it is the most beautiful, but lonely death i can imagine.

a bruise for every time she smiles at you from across the way
or how she will never leave a mark, a scar, something written
on the skin only meant for that awkward moment
between the two, and the three, and all the others waiting in the shade, in the alley
at the bus stop the following morning, cuando la luz se te cruza en el camino

alright, i'll wait for the time to expire and reset all the weird ways in which you decide to unknow me all over again, apply pause, that tiny, breathless moment when i open my eyes and find myself sinking in you, hiding within your doubts, and holding on to your mistakes as if they were my own,.

i'll meet your bluest eye

with my whitest lie

and raise you the blackest night

not quite beyond the pale

they said,

why do they bow to the reddest moon

you wondered

is this your yellow trick road?

i shoulda known the grass is always greener

by then it all comes together and becomes one more lesson to ponder in bed while the cat scratches at the door. i can never tell if he's trying to get in or out, and then it dawns on me the cat is not really a cat.

and then finally, there was the time nobody knew how to start all over again. and we all did what we thought we were expected to, drink a little more, stare across the bay, the harbor, or whatever body of water keeps us apart, and wonder if we left right now we might just be able to make the last train back to …nowhere.

it will all end soon enough, maybe even

after we’ve become the ruins of what we're looking for;

a dangling body, a swinging sentence,
 a quiet moment between the cars
where solitude is the undisputed king
of games not finished before our ultimate destination.

so this is how you describe that hollowness

so this is the best i can do

so this how my road unravels in your back country

alwaysmind

her exact words were irrelevant, the power lied in the pauses, the tentative way in which she half-smiled, awaiting an answer. the handful of instants melted in my hand, my words were predictable, the whole thing was predictable, the immensity of my want unbearable.

how do you look at your own weakness in the eye and turn it into something else, anything else; there will be others; there will be no end to that tautness that holds your entire body hostage, that will make sure memory betrays what little you'll be able to hold on to when it is all over and you are on your way to that place that looks like home, but will never even get close to that calmness that washes over you in her presence, regardless of the actual distance; you will remember it, and it will haunt you in such a way so as to spend whatever it is that you need to provide her for a reason to answer again.

¿cuántas veces ensayaste el momento?
¿cómo es posible que no lo puedas evitar?
¿con cuál de todos tus sueños lograrás la ablación de rigor?

facing a dream is not unlike facing an abyss, perhaps the real difference being a certain willingness to jump. regardless. because you know that whatever may lie down there, it is accompanied by relief, true relief. and hopefully that other world you've always suspected existed somewhere else. in the end, you make peace with the fact that you are willing to do anything, anything for another chance.

how could you not?

AwkMom-O-Rama

A dream walks up to you, but when the words come out, they are in a different language;
supongo que así creamos a los monstruos, lo mejor es que sigas bebiendo -- la verdad es que sólo lo hago porque siento un inmenso vacío en lo más adentro, pero confieso que me sentí muy bien lastimando a otro, a otra, a cualquiera menos a mí otra vez

And everything is over before you realize the implications of all that transpires that makes you laugh -- ouch, dices y te acuestas, acomodando tu cabeza - tu condena - sobre el pecho de una vida que no sabes cómo terminará, aunque estás seguro de que todo se vendrá encima como una avalancha de torpezas y tropiezos en la oscuridad, en la pista de baile, en la barra con una botella, dos botellas, tres botellas, mil botellas de cerveza. escuchas que dice, entre dientes, que bebe para no sentir, para no sentirse como un ser humano, un ser sensible que canta y baila y sigue viviendo a pesar de todos los golpes, todos los malentendidos, todos los moretones

a bruise for every time she smiles at you from across the way
another night that will never end for the way it all sways at four in the morning
a mark, a scar, something written on the skin only meant for that awkward moment
between the two, and the three, and all the others waiting in the shade, in the alley
at the bus stop the following morning, cuando la luz se te cruza en el camino

ayzi deys

como una reunión espontánea con repercusiones
inexorables
los minutos, las horas, el brochazo gélido
la ilusión
rumiamos las decisiones sin parar
reviviendo
los dolores, los golpes, las lesiones, los aullidos
siempre
sacude y despierta, la posibilidad es despiadada
nunca
temes el jamás, la probabilidad de que te lo pierdas

Esperanza

a name, a shield
          una ella, única, el último recurso
para detener el final de tu mundo
          un nombre, un escudo
all the things I didn't get a chance to say

la maldición del reloj

para entender la tiranía del reloj, primero hay que repasar el contexto de su latifundio; el matre es una balsa que flota en el mar de una alfombra asquerosa, al derredor los restos de una malavida componen un archipiélago de bultos y cajas llenas de recuerdos y disparates, y por último el gato merodea como una tintorera - cada uno de sus dientes representa una decisión desacertada;

la mano larga es un remo inútil,
         la corta, una navaja roma, tu cuchilla suiza
                    los números consienten el remolino que todo lo traga

llueve a las 4:21 y lamentas el minuto desapercibido
a las 5 y pico olvidas el dolor y te incorporas
el sueño ya no existe y te rindes, imposible recobrarlo

cuando vienes a ver, ya lo que queda de la lluvia es el ruido de las goteras y un rumor de hojas caídas al otro lado de la entrada, el olor a café es unánime pero inconsecuente, un desayuno ahora es lo más absurdo que se te ocurre y optas por el hipnótico ronroneo que imaginas emana del corazón del ordenador, pero que en realidad surje de lo más íntimo del felino adormecido al pie del escritorio

hoy es mañana, mañana es otra paja mental y ayer siempre vence sobre el optimismo idiótico que le asignas al futuro imperfecto; las manos se cruzan, los segundos se tropiezan unos con otros y los minutos son el murmullo interminable de todo lo que te elude porque no estabas prestando atención cuando dieron las instrucciones, las horas - sospechas - son los átomos de un universo finito y los días son las moléculas de tantas veces que confundiste la intención con la reacción. la repetición es una condena y los meses son las barras que te encierran.

entonces la estructura pierde su forma coherente
         masa y materia son decisiones hechas por mayoría de votos
                  la energía es el espíritu de la letra, el lenguaje,
                            una manera de medirlo todo sin compromiso

para entender cómo es que se acaba todo, primero tienes que saldar la cuenta - maldita sea, no hay ventanas en el baño y aunque hay dos entradas, o salidas, no hay escapatoria. una vez más te ves obligado a dejarlo todo sobre la mesa. al fin y al cabo llegas a un entendimiento que te ilumina como un relámpago: cada vez que pensabas que estabas comenzando de nuevo desde cero, en realidad estabas continuando desde cero. el trueno lo aclara todo: el fin no es más que otra ilusión.