026 08122018 E

About love and being alone.

About distance and a fair warning.

About this things that we don't say to each other

because is not about time

About this, about that. 

About to pick up the phone and text you

About to regret it. Or maybe not.

About to decide for how long can this empty gasoline tank 

                                                              /can still take us.

About to get dizzy.

About to give it up, and give it away.

About what we feel and about what we do about it.

About to see the nature of the game

About to play it again

About to fake it if it's required.

All about it.

About to run to you if you only hint it

About to love it if you reel me in again

about to get caught on this roundabout 

over and over and over 

again.

 

025 01122019 E

My Personal X Genner Manifesto: 

I hate me, but I have to deal with myself. Full grown man, mind of a minor. Always an irresponsible cunt, leaving everything on the hands of people that don't give a fuck.

I'm useless, I can't extract my own appendix like that Russian doctor in the North Pole.
I can't come clean out of respect to others and it kills me. They are the one that should be dying, not me.

DARN IT. Not me.

I hate me, but I also have some good stuff.
And that's why I hate me, because I don't know if I'm gold or crap. A shore for the castaway or an anchor tied to the neck on high sea. A sunny day on a convertible or bird shit on your eye as you drive. A mouthwash fairy or a cavity inducing-tooth decaying daemon. A coin to spend on vice, or poverty-forced righteousness. I hate and love myself but that makes me love and hate me more. And I hate that.

Being a mix. 

But, balance, they say. when I can't even balance my breakfast. Or my emotional life for that matter. Patience, they say. But I can't even wait for my bread to come out of the toaster, or my next paycheck, or unbutton a bra. Hard work, they say. Fuck that. Fuck that. Fuck it a lifetime for that is what I gave to that Lie.

So, thank you baby boomers. Hope you enjoyed your big fat Elvis McDonald's burgers while fucking on a convertible Chevy '57 in a drive- in cinema, because we are still paying for that.

And for all that, maybe is time for me to act like an adult and neatly place all that american dream talk on a wheelbarrow and dumpit on the toilet of any abandoned mall. Of any abandoned house on Detroit. Over the dead body of anyone that could not afford to pay health bills. And leave it there, unflushed for no one to see or complain. Oh, Hank. You were right all that time. Oh, Hank. How did you know?

Oh Hank can I have a beer with you? Did you hated yourself as I do? Are we so intelligent for this, are we so comically stupid? Can I have that girl on the photo? She looks cute. 

Spent flashcubes, undeveloped 110 film, empty wine and beer bottles, a stench of sex on the tablecloth, stains on yellow tooth for smoking, Oh Hank, can I have a smoke? Can I vomit on your rug?. And swear as I vomit. Because I love swearing. Oh I love to swear. But I contain myself. And for that, I hate myself. But at least I'm not alone on it.

Some people hate me too, and that is some comfort. 

No, wait.

Fuck them, they don't have the right. They don't know me as I do. If they do, they will hate me right. But no one do me right. But I don't mind now. Because I have myself to hate me right. I still vomit, you are drunk and laughing. I love you, Hank. How did you know? 

- - -

So in all the light, And for all of this, I will continue with my rancid composure. Until you, world, turn your back. Then I'm going to fuck you too, and make to millenials what Bommers made to me. 

Boomers. They shall all Boomed with the Big Boy and Fat Man of their parents. And as for me, I should drown on my internet.

But nonetheless. until then, there is nothing left for me to do but hate me and live the rest of my life with myself. 

At least our conversations are smart, energetic and very engaging. 

024 01122018

Solitud

delgada y etérea

que en mis hombros se posa

cual delicado manto real

 

que hace mi palabra redundante

incomoda molestia del flujo del pensar.

Que traspola mi dia hecho y lo estrella contra lo dicho

en aquel momento de planear.

Solitud

entre la tristeza y el embargo

pegando plumas con cera a mis brazos

para volar de nuevo al sol 

que hace mi voluntad estéril

descomponiendo el hastío la letra

Pero hoy ha habido redadada en el 33

y Mario sale a las cinco menos tres.

hacia ningún lugar.

Solitud

Encerrado en un cuarto sin ruido

con el alma muerta y muy divertido

o viviendo en temor suspendido

cerrando siempre este libro 

con hojas 100% libres de algodón, cloro y plomo.

Donde el eco de aquel espacio vacio 

es como un ser bienvenido, no sé. 

Donde en la nada queda sabido

que no hay ya ave en el nido

que el tiempo es dinero y el dinero no compra la felicidad.

Solitud

Que en gritos mi mente se cierra

que esto no lo aguanta cualquiera

se cierra la cremallera

Disfrute Coca-Cola.

023 27112018

III

Se abre aparte, 

mundos pasan en el cielo 

y no se encuentran

La luz se cierra

al vaivén de sus caderas 

queso fresco y fruta seca

cuando viene

dos tiempos que se estrellan

el aire entre las bocas

uno entonces

dos aparte

la memoria es una jugarreta.

una chanza

un espejo de dos lados

el engaño de una luna paralela

y entre los estretores

de los ecos de esos días

se abre aparte

mundos pasan en el cielo cuando vienen

dos soles que se estrellan

una chanza

022 11182018 E

There is a man typing on his computer on his room.

I see him on the window while I stand outside.

As I notice something on the corner of my eye while I write, 

I turn to look outside my window, to the garden. 

And whatever was there is gone.

It has been now eight straight hours of driving on the highway.

I see the lights of the dashboard and the hypnotic lines on the road

as they swirl and dance under the headlights of my car.

But I'm still on my chair, on my desk, on my computer, typing.

While I try my best to put my thoughts on words, thinking, revising

hitting the keyboard with verve and attention, I smell the salt on the air.

Because I'm on the Huatulco Lighthouse, screaming my lungs out against the wind on a sun drenched noon, and I'm sitting on a huge storm sewer pipe as a kid back home right now.

There is this eagerness of my spirit to leave this body, to be everywhere, to know the things

it will never know while sitting here, wrapped on my 1981 body, sitting on this dry and dark pipe that echoes my voice as I speak. 

And I shall let go of my spirit. I know. But I'm afraid.

Because I know it might not come back

and then I will be just like everyone I know.

0021 11032018 E

Pain is not art, or so they say
And boy, Do I agree.

Pain when is up for auction is more like the idea of pain.
Not pain by itself.

Art is a window to another world.
And I have to stop you right there.

There is no other world. 
Just the idea of it. Whatever you do in your mind with it is your business.

Money is always on demand
And I don't know how to put this gently:

Pain and art and money and business is the lullaby 
sung by modern dealers and the newly rich lusting for a spotlight
where everyone sings and chorus along
on an ever shrieking note

And that ever growing distorted chant
is the loud end of culture as we know it.

0020 11032018 E

Dia de Muertos.

When I'm gone, just let go.
You know I will never just go gently into that good night
More like rattle and shake as I brake my way down

So let go of my dirty hands and let me drift on to the current
Unconsciously into the everything, Not so bravely into the nothing.
But I will be there, rest assured.

And let me chant that sour song of the ones pressed by shorten daybreak
That bitter battle cry of disrepair and fear, that makes the soul ready for that certain end.
But fear not, this song will not echo into your world of certainties.

Be sure to pack all you got mine with me as I leave, for this you won't need anymore. 
Put your memories of me on my pockets. Place the days of us on my head like a wreath of                                                                                                                                     /triumph
A coin in every eye.
A burning kiss of things suspended on my forehead. 

And dispatch me with confidence over that substance drifting ever away 
knowing for sure that time is cyclical 
and I can never really go anywhere

Not until we're done.
You and I.