Cansancio

Se cansa el sistema visual

despues de leer palabras bajo

la luz de una lámpara

escondida entre autos.

Cansado se encuentra,

pero al continuar vé

el cansancio es falaz;

se inventa al no encontrar

energía de flujo.

Se siente el cansancio

la fatiga física y mental

el sosiego de una tarde

invernal, mas tácita, calmada.

En la calma del viento

se ve que el movimiento

no es por cuenta propia;

se mueve al conmoverse.

Ya tarde y sumido

paciente invierno que canta

con el viento, susurrando:

Todo sigue, siempre hay cambio.

Why Not?

Why not ramble? There is certainly enough to talk about, right? Take the present state of our affairs, how the simple things in life have gotten us this far into the delicate and intense, rudimentary exchange of intimate secrets covered with the worldly face of boring gestures. You hand me a cup of tea and I am supposed to say - thank you - but the wind blows on the old oak and we both lose track of time and politeness, or I do and I don't notice if you're with me in this abandon; or how I can tell you you are freakishly childish and you get upset and tell me nothing worth retaliation, you just sit on it as if it were a very uncomfortable cushion but the only one on the couch, instead of picking the damn pillow up and smacking me square in the face! So what if you are uninhibited and aloof? Better that than the dormant state in which I find myself in much of the time, in the abysmal silence that returns with the passing of each moon like the drowning tide of an unsettled ocean. Let's go for a swim, then. 

Dream

This is after the entire platform collapses. Nothing is harmed, in fact everything remains intact through the fall. Once the momentum settles everything, the set looks exactly the sam, just lower. As it stands lower, all lights point at it in a completely different angle, casting new shadows. The experience in the set is still the same one, the sense of the experience is completely transformed. Recovering from the shock of the fall, subjects jerk upwards, their fingers sometimes clenched to the seats they occupy at the time, or, with a twisted ankle, they grasp their leg pressing their jaws together for less than a second, relaxing them with a whimper or a scream preceded by an immediate gasping for air, an inhalation as noisy as the fall itself. Then hey open their eyes, as most subjects close theirs in panic when they sense the ground is falling down. Revealed before them is a scenery that seem exact to their recollections, but the shock has made them doubt if it is the same room at all. Unsure, they look rapidly around them, confused by the daydream quality of this experience. The lamp is the same one, with the ribbons draped from the shade, the walls aren't cracked, the small gold ornaments are exactly where they were before. Some subjects laugh nervously. They entertain the possibility that their minds have just played a trick on them. Others, more analytical ones, pace about the room detailing everything, going over the sensation in their minds. As time rolls over them, they all seem to feel a sense of anxiety expressed with a physical mannerism; sitting on a chaise and twirling their thumbs around each other, tapping the tip of their toe inside the moccasins on the ground repeatedly, twirling their hairs and twisting their beards. Without confirmation of the event, since all subject experience the fall individually, the event degrades rapidly. Soon all subjects take it as it is and carry on. Only a few never let go of the questions.

endemic

When the aging cancer agitates
under this skin of wood dust
it rearranges the muscles
it forces its way through
breaks the well of peace.

Times like the one saved
while I must concede to thought
unable to deny it; unwilling.
Once a thought committed
it is forever etched within.

Where is the ceasing strife?
Just under the muscles, or
tied to the vermin that thrives
suckling dry the last strains
born out of willingness.

Once I said not to use words
as cyphers to meanings;
to be transparent.
But these waters flow polluted,
their clarity murked.

How to see through this muck?
Under the film covering the surface
lives a heart weakened.
Its vessels have more to carry;
vessels of a natural clarity.

Disturbed waters that cycle
the garbage, damming it still.
One cleanse is enough to refresh
once the heart is ahead;
Will it be.

Go as the wind rains down

listening carefully to the footsteps

laughing at how fleeting

Now is.

Holding heart in hand

a glimpse of Truth announces

Truth is what you believe

Reality to be.

All words are inklings

attempting to carry a meaning

of that which is unknowable;

sounds of Truth.

Are there any questions?

Ask them without words

to understand the answer

with the senses.

far from the crop

Gentle sun behind this back that strains

to soak its warmth as if tied by rusted cables

connecting a series of serious inflammations;

rustic corners etched outwards, drawn outside

original lines, corners rounded when made 

soft but sharp, taut but lax, nice but stern.

The rows of earthed crops align just like the back,

resting on a solid surface but leavened and dispersed,

crooking as they slope with tiredness;

soil that acts as the backbone of life, pending water.

This back crumbles like the dirt when it meets the sun,

it dries up, wanting to receive seeds of growth and flow.

Hoses and drip lines extending to nourish 

drifting under a warm, peaceable sky.

Flow conceived under pressure. Flowing only to escape.

A mockingbird chatters in the distant rye;

like the piping that intends to flow through clog and clutter,

laughing while it wells up; Laughing at the laughing sun.

Dry and solemn, somewhere in front of this back,

something boils to the strains of mixed up pressures,

representing in its flow the confused, blundering mind;

Body bursting upward in protest of its stagnant body;

Flesh containing in itself the uncontainable.

The flow expanding, overwhelming the pressure,

under the warming sun.

Haiku and a thought

At the covered pass

the river moss blends in

with the wood grain.

*Have you ever chewed hard cereal looking at a digital clock? It truly makes time the elusive idea that it is. 

offer

I wonder about my devotion, 

often times burdened by 

confusion.

The secrecy of its existence

is like the seed of a short lived

blossom.

Sensing has become an impulse

blasting electricity, saturating

sense.

Still, in disbelief of my own 

requital, I face the moment of

contemplation.

Justice is the act of courage

against betrayal of the heart.

Strange Dream

The uniformed student tells his dead peer, after being shot in the head and body by his teacher with a machine gun, as his brain slowly seep through the massive bullet holes: "You know when you can tell eating candy isn't so good for you? When you see what I see right now." Then he takes a piece of candy from a vendor, who knelt down to him, and popped it in his open skull. His brain moved like spaghetti and wrapped around it. 

The teacher went insane after being disproved, by a double checker, of his cynical theory of cheating students; or perhaps it was the range of the answer in the arithmetics or calculus exam, which he didn't think of and marked as wrong. He had already lost his mind, but kept it locked, hidden from contact, after seeking the boy with a bad knee a few days back. At the sight of it he licked his lips lasciviously and remarked "Oh, that knee/ Do I know that knee?!" 

Everything was tinted algae green and dimmed down; a world consumed by ivy. Sometimes, as if they were remembrances from other, happier times,  technicolor moving portraits in french, of the kid and his sister's friends, would flash between short episodes...

The Unbeatable Me

Beating the unbeatable me,

the me who speaks about it

all the time

Asking itself for a handout

While the sandstone's occupied

grinding the thin metal blade,

there it is 

Chatting with the cutlery

If the hand stops, 

it takes a moment quietly

to make sure

Nothing needs interrupting

Silent at this harlequin,

consumed by its details

a gazer

Seldom agitated by sultriness. 

Dreaming the Answers

If the beast screams at you, scream back at it. Then you wake up and assent, agreeing to do that; so what's the next step? To close your eyes. Take that pillow that always drifts about the bed and snuff it between your knees and soon enough you are in Bogotá. The prevalent question on your mind's eyes all day long was Why do I do the things I do? All those seemingly stupid, irresponsible, compromising acts that plague me for the rest of the day. Since you have as good a guess as anyone, (which isn't Really True,) you have been asking God all day long, c'mon, we have a predicament here, and since I've been running the tail of the cat for quite some time now, without any concrete "solutions," how 'bout giving me a hand here? And now you are back in this makeshift Bogotá of your subconscious mind, wondering around with your brother and, even though right now this whole thing seems to be somewhere in your pillow, (not the one between your knees,) entertaining some mites, at the time it was evolving it wasn't clear how you got a hold of that airplane. 

Because you are in the living room of the house of la cientocuarenta and suddenly you have hijacked an empty airplane in mid flight and, after getting a hold of it, you go to the cabin like it was still the living room and forget all about the plane. No wonder it was spinning out of control! You and your brother, and that girl who still makes no sense at all, maybe your female counterpart, don't seem all too worried; you just apologize, I forgot about that, I took this plane and we're heading straight to the ground, while they just freak out. But very calmly. The sight of a park speeding up towards the windshield doesn't make any of you scream, and somehow you manag to level that craft to the ground and crash it straight into the gates of that small residential complex, the one in la cientocuarenta where your dad lives, and destroy the front wall and the large metallic door where cars come in. Now you get anxious! 

You exit the rummages of that plane and see the watchman; Please, man, you have to help me here, this is so fucked! while your brother and that girl have that look on their faces, that When-dad gets-home look, and the watchman sympathetically, but in utter confusion, holds his head with his right hand, as if the plane hitting the façade of the building hurt him or something. An urban plane crash in broad daylight, luckily not many people are around, and the watchman gets on the front seat of that wreck and you get in there too. Soon you are driving it, as the sun sets, grinding the shards of metal under the cockpit over the asphalt. I imagine what the rush hour traffic must've thought! It turns out the sun wasn't setting, because as soon as you ditch that junked out air-o-plane on the side of what seemed to be calle cientotreintaynueve, paranoid of being seen by anyone, you return to calle cientocuarenta, the sun is shining and you know that it is the Light of Love shining for you, but you don't realize its Real candor. 

I think you were holding baby Natalia's hand, and she was all chatter, but you were trying to figure out what had happened. Driven by that necessity to explain your actions, consumed by the anxiety of seeing you dad once you arrive home, your brain turns over all stones to find how you got hold of the plane. And you find it; God told me to do it, and it is the Truth! Baby Natalia keeps chatting, talking about the airplane and you try to rush so people on streets don't catch a glimpse of what she's saying. When you got to her building in calle cientocuarentaydos, you tell her to forget it all and pat her rear up the stairs. 

Not three steps ahead, you realize the magnitude of God, of Her telling you that you heard Her correctly, He did tell you to crash that plane. Now the sunshine is so bright and calid, and right in front of Baby Natalia's building there is a metal fence; God, I will climb this fence for you, as if sensing that something on the other side of it will get you closer to the Light, but no sooner than you've climbed two meters, the fence bows down with your weight and gets higher. So you climb further, you won't give up. Still, the fence bows down even lower and gets even higher, and your own weight is pulling you downwards. This is the point of true devotion for you feel the twinge of defeat and brace up, keep climbing up that fence, I will not give up and fall down. 

Soon you are as high as the building next to the fence and over there, where the billboard starts you see Baby Natalia with a young indian-looking man; look, its him, he crashed the airplane! He sees nothing. Lovingly he condescends her, there is no one there on the fence, and you are holding on even while the fence keeps getting higher and higher. The Light embraces you and you decide never to give up; reaching the top, Baby Natalia smiles at you while waving and the young man is waving too. Then you disappear. 

Now there is no sunshine as you find yourself in your dad's house, a penumbra accentuated by black light and neon; he's waiting for you downstairs. No fear, you know God asked you to do it, to take that plane and crash it, and you are calm in Illumination. Walking down the stairs you see your dad slouching on a chair and Ana Maria is there too, but you aren't concerned. He utters something, its now becoming hazy. His discontent isn't yet violent, but you just tell him the truth and kiss him on the forehead, and even though he's angry, he gives in without reaction, rather with uneasy acceptance. They both get up and leave you there with your permanent smile. When you turn around to see where they went, you have to walk to a hallway and there he is, in the bath tub, singing the song that reminds you of when he used to hit you. Ana Maria walks past you naked, and you don't concentrate on her, just see her contour out of the corner of your eye. 

A few steps away and you are in tune with God and you are told to begin the process. So you find yourself in the underground foundry and mine, and a worker is handing you the bindings of a book forged in minerals, still cooling and composite crystals softening up on its surface. The title is already engraved on it: Problems with Polluting. Your last thought in communion with All is, now I must find all the tools, as you run your hand over the book cover, shaving off the crystal dust on the ground.

Rain don't bite.

Moist. Slippery. Wet. Breezy. Cold. Wintry. Soothing. Gray. (Shining yellow, orange, purple and a glow reminding this isn't ugly nor pretty.) Clouded. Misty. Thick. Splotched. (Tsk, what a day!) Trembling very, very softly, between my ankles and my teeth. Wool sure is the insulator. Grainy steps from time to time blast a shock of electricity in the right hip; aligning the skeleton takes a nerve. Wound up. Unsure. Distressed. Calm. Like the day's winds; to go anywhere is to turn over and return a few times. Relaxing. Subtle. Clean. While eating a thought assaults all others, rendering them powerless: eating alone for the sake of not eating accompanied (or someone else's meat) is pitiful. Savoring every bite of that burrito, while dreaming of real enchiladas and refritos. Spending a hundred bucks in four days while unemployed. Calculating. Planning. Counting. Expecting. A fool's game of pressuring the crock pot. See if it explodes. At least the rain is just as unusual as the opportunity to blow one's lid over the sky. Musical. Temperamental. Critical. Gusts of wind trample the drops right off the tree branches, spattering them in any readily available surface. Like this jacket, or a pile of persistent leafs from last fall. Nearby, wind chimes laugh at all this Sunday full of indoors-men-and-women hiding from the wonderful bleakness that brings out color in us. This masked depression, massively felt when the sky is low. If a seam of light were to penetrate... Slow. Flowing. Frail. Alive!

One Haiku, Two Haiku-not

Knife cuts spud in half

soil on the broken wood board~

steel from deep within.

Street woman peeled her nose

a blanket on her legs~

late winter caressed her face.

Ballerina Tangled in a Thornbush

Before me dance

all beautiful ballerinas

in celebration of a quiet secret

An Illumination shun

from insight

caught in the veil

of my refusal

Blinding glimpses

grace unburdened

by the thorns;

Love, a dance 

of unstoppable motion

Rattling the stage 

with intermittent walk

between its lights

and its shadows

As the Masterworks

in unseen distance 

music surging from all

alluring children 

where hope awaits

divine chance

of freedom

This isn't anywhere at all. The mere existence of these words is impossible, they are only here because you and I are willing to let them be here. And here is nowhere. Once a button is pressed there isn't a chance to locate its meaning, to pinpoint the precedence and destinations it will encounter. One is many. Read or not, this is just a passing stage, and its reality is as questionable as its meaning.