DICCIONARIO

follear tus páginas

para quedar perplejo y sin palabras

delante de la riqueza inesgotable de la lengua

perplejo y sin palabras

como esas chiquitas cosas mudas

las que no tienem un nombre

FOR AN HOTEL ROOM

we are the leftovers of love.

its second-thoughts burn in us,

spurring the very substance

we are worn out of -

loneliness and desire.

staggeringly,

in lovers' usage,

we quit ourselves

as this room we’re leaving

- babe, have you got the keys?

in a world as we don’t know it,

a landscape escapades

against a listless car window.

I reflect about this moment

which looks itself

on the skin of a waterway

where bathe the images

of all still and moving things:

both the sinfully living and

the rigorously dead

soar absorbed on this

barren inner sky:

water,

the odourless path

that walks on your fingers.

I try to take a grip at, but,

elusive as a shadow, this moment

never drowns slowly enough,

and no sooner than I think of it,

finds an exit and fades away.

eventually, I am reassured,

we would lose it completely

in the errancies of memory,

over a bench some other time

some public place, as the idle

byproducts of an eternity

our souls will never

bother to aspire.

the journey

will keep traveling

only in a thing

as blind as an eye.

but we try

and, right now,

riding in the wake

of a rail by the gravel,

we resurface

on our unknowing,

like the ghostly

hallucinations of a lake.

AT SUNSET N. 2

Turning to look over the voice,
I lost and have not lost my face.
My memory was a single noise
inside of a deafening silence.

From the dying day, scarce a wink.
I put off my clothes on the brink,
and merged in the wakeless lake:
I wasn’t heavier than a shade.

We will only have been what leaves
without disturbing the still water,
we’ll be the envy of the leaves
that once on this mirror got carved.

The night reminded that the body
by dusk slowly entwines with darkness,
and the poets have long being singing
that a man is one of the shadows

from a dream. But in the bleak night
you gleamed with the radiation
of a black body, and I knew
that in fact a body is a pure

hybrid – between darkness and light.

BACK TO THE CAVE

It was quite light outside,
a warm day in a dry season.
A river lining the pathway
licked our pace,
unaware of so much haste.
I refused the offerings of the day,
preferred instead to descend
back into the cave.
Slowly, my groping eyes
tried to pick up the ends
of the glowing threads
which spread through the web
of shades in all directions
only to make out in the end
even more shadows.
In time, already lodged,
I rested hat and life on neighbouring seats.
And as fantasy deployed its plots,
I felt sort reminded
of that so-called reality I left
suspended on the outside up above,
though I admit it has lately become
far too black and white for my liking,
and had better let itself go less numbed
by the surrogate tales of its own disasters.
However, when a raucous actress
in an old fashioned pitch says
I love you, it is light and verb
shed only to make sense of this world.
And lest careless routine or callousness
eventually rip us off,
scattering our shreds
just all over,
so they can't be rejoined,
before being lured back
into the eye of the city,
we can now and then dye our lives
for two or more hours
in Technicolor.

THE MACHINE OF THE WORLD

Between the screech of breaks and the pull of restarts,
the machine of the world sways in the deafening traffic.
On its daily rounds, at eighteen hundred hours,
it skims, tries and devours all bits and pieces of ours.

As it spits them in sacks, the detached shadows connect
to second-hand bodies, at hand as recycled flasks.
The city rocks its dreams, and the crunched life acts redeemed.
Those who don’t see sleep. And those who see don’t take heed.

The wasted time pretends to go past, only to come back at last
even more poignantly on the wake of our guilty unconscionability -
as a dethroned king, a recurring bad dream or some chronic infirmity.
Among debris and loads of muck rolls on the garbage truck.