265

Two hundred
two.
Two people, some time ago.
Two hundred and sixty five days ago.
Two people and a pause.
Three hundred and eighty one thousand, six hundred minutes of remorse.
Two people, one and two.
One person watches another one go.
Twenty two million, eight hundred and ninety six thousand seconds of saliva, going down a single throat.
And the timeless silence of a coward,
letting another one go.
Addicted to nostalgia, dripping by the ticking movement of its sword.

Things falling

My feet are digging into the ground
the tips of my hair clinging to the air
I breathe sometimes, when I remember
and blink. Dust chews at my gums.

It is time, you say it
will take care of everything.
A riptide and sweet empty wind
full of salt and bees.

But I see things falling,
words and dreams, a story
I imagined and built of
foam and sunlight beams.

They fall, under my stomach
into my guts and bowels
it is time, you say, it
changes. But I´ll call it gravity.

Aches of paper

She could read.
She could live forever and ever.
She aches of paper.

Javelin

Pierced through the limbs
to the wall with a javelin
like a fly or a cockroach
The rugged wall of sandpaper
by the rush of the water
Flat-backed and belly-burnt
roasting in bits and pieces
digging the javelin hole.

Embebido

"Embebido" that´s what I am
drunk of the talent´s shadow I wear.
Embe, iambo, dandy, anger
anything I can touch, I can tear.

My words are in the freezer
my fingers in the air
shards of glass in my stomach,
tangles in my hair.

"Embebido", dangling at my bellybutton
a mouthful of rhymes to share
bebido, botella, drunk, drank
spitting verses unaware

Rima, arrima, pass me that drink
estoy embebido, I swear
a glass, a poem, I´ll give you a sip
I have stomach to spare

Pie quebrado, silva and sonnets
it´s such a syllable affair
falling from my tongue like
liquid blocking into squares

Give me a swig, give me a theme
I have a verse to declare.
Give me a gulp, saliva and ink
I´ll see your any dare.

America is a road

Sometimes I wait on the side of the road and wonder where I´m going

Sometimes I wait on the side

of a road that was paved in this desert.

America is a road

It´s a road where I never grow old. They always play my music on the radio.

America is a road, full of tiny scabs and termites

Skeleton trees and cracked lips

It´s a road that sneaks through the heart of the forest

With saplings bended over by the weight of bloom

And tiny nuts hiding in lush branches.

America is not really America. It´s only a little bit of big America.

Strange names of many letters.

Whispers of Indians, ghosts of meadows.

It´s a road that I remember day and night

A road that is not a road, that is a river

and the slow slipping of wild time to be tamed.

America is a road full of earth prisons and same-same signs.

A people of roads that have shinny blind eyes.

Dust and moon glow inebriety in the high corners of mountains

In the dark grazing lands of lions and bears.

America is a road full of spirits and words, parading down the path of freedom,

Nibbling at the slumber of those that sleep.

Sometimes I wait on the side of the road and wonder where I´m going

Walking, slowly.

Sometimes I wait on the side and let the road go. 

Five vowels

Infatuation, imagination

Five vowels of truth and dare

Imagination, infatuation

Creating people from thin air

And there was blindness to the fool

She confuses ears and eyes

She creates toys from images

And people from pieces and glue.

And there was a pedestal for the idol

He gives wings to the earth

He sprinkles sex with deity

And senses with eternity.

And there will be problems tomorrow.

There always will be.

Tomorrow problems of today’s imagination.