viernes, julio 24

La tormentosa virtud de gritar mudamente

Hoy podría sentir que el más suave roce del viento
es un huracán tempestuoso
Hoy llegaría a quemarme las retinas
con sólo ver el resplandor del claro de luna
Hoy siento que abarco todo y soy nada
Con suerte si soy una sombra rehuida en la oscuridad
O el más mínimo destello existencial que viva
Hoy puedo sentirlo todo; violentamente, austeramente, inagotablemente.
Hoy y sólo hoy percibo a mi ser salirse de mi cuerpo
y habitarlo plenamente.

sábado, julio 18

6:47 AM+alcohol.

Apareció,
fulgurante como un rayo,
tajante y penetrante
y le carcomió la vida.

Sin permiso
le invadió su ser completo y sin respeto,
de lo poco que perduró,
se alejó.

Se alejó no solo
ni vacío.

Se alejó repleto
y extasiado
abastecido del ser que hubo devorado
satisfecho de su sed apaciguada.

martes, julio 14

sorry for doing this to you.

océnao

Seres oceánicos, de inmensos recovecos, en los cuales me sumergiría y me dejaría arrastrar corriente abajo, sólo por la curiosidad de saber por dónde podrán desembocar todas esas vertientes. Seres infinitos, creo que los hay, de aquellos en los cuales nunca se tiene la certeza de haberlos recorrido por completo, de los que en cada vez que creo acercarme, me alejo más. Seres multiformes, tal vez, ¿En incesante búsqueda de un disfraz? No, de esa conclusión prefiero prescindir. No podría ser un disfraz lo que los hace variar.
Hablo de los seres cuya naturaleza entraña algo más profundo, algo que los empuja a mudar constantemente de actitud, que es desconocido por todos y que no podemos saber. Y este saber que no se puede saber es lo que me lleva a sumergirme hasta el ahogo en sus aguas.


viernes, julio 3

Charles Bukowski

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers, 
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this