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.

0019 10282018 E

Existence is pain. Pain is controlled by a pill. Existence is pill.

That she said, and I turned my head like an owl and fixed my eyes on hers.

There was a broken expression on her face, although she didn't know back then.

Smart one, this one.

And as any smart one, also a sad one.

I't was always like that on Friday evenings. We were seating there on the living, at the television.  There was a promise of an intoxicated and fun Saturday and an easy Sunday of hungover, take out meals half eaten and pills.

Existence is pill.

And overtime work for the kidneys.

And on Friday evenings after work, we did this exercise of seating on the couch and pretend to see the television while we just witnessed each other pretending to see the television. It was fascinating, because on those days truths bloomed there on the couch, not like today. Today truth is shame.  

I barked a laugh while staring at her eyes, Then she turned back to the TV screen.

I kept staring at her. At her short hair. At the way she nibbled her popcorn, distracted.

And tried to remember a poem about prescription drugs and mouthwash fairies, long time ago back then.

0018 10242018 E

It rains, it pours heavily. 
I'm on the water. 
It's the sea. 
I'm on a beach. 
No one is here. Because is raining so hard.

The sea is on a tense calm, broken by the rain. The sky and the sea surface are kissing vertically on a continuous torrent. 

And I'm on the middle of it.
Alone. Dipped in the water, eyes at sea level. Holding my breath.

Rains so hard, I taste the water of the sea, and it's sweet. 
I raise my eyes and see the sky going dreadfully from gray to black. Is late in the evening. The sun is muffled high above the heavy clouds. Is there, alien to the grace of all this water talking.

No human eyes but mine.

No sound but the unbroken stream of rain. Water falling over water. Not on the ungrateful floor, not on the thirsty sand: Water greeting water and I'm just on the interchange surface.

The horizon of the sea stretches infinite on water suspended, crashing, bouncing, mixing, melting. 

And I'm alone on the middle of it.

Thunder rumbles over my head, I might die on the water.

Maybe not.

Maybe if a bolt discharges over me, my soul will be kept it's eyes frozen on this moment. On this view. On this moment. On the ever thunderous lovemaking of sweet water and salt, of sky and sea. On this moment, my feet on the sand underwater. Mystery of emotion, array of sensations, consequence of silent and unlikely chance.


Maybe it won't be death.

Maybe it will be a state of eternal grace and wonder, contemplating endlessly the insurmountable glory of nature. Of planetary order. Of all the things and beauty there to be discovered by the life that emerged of the cosmos itself.

It's getting very dark and cold now. The storm is growing angry. 

I walk over the wet hard sand, breaking the howling wind and rain on my way back to the hotel. I Picked my towel under the umbrella by the pool and got myself dry. All the hotel lights are now on. I took the elevator. I rushed to the room and took a hot bath. 

My friends are also at the room sharing it with me. They are watching television; An old movie plays loudly. They are drinking and complaining about the weather. About the bad luck of picking a vacation week on the beach with this dreary weather, as the windows rattle by the wind and water behind them.

I left everyone chatting inside the room, as I opened up the glass window of the balcony. I closed the door behind me and sat down alone outside, in the ravenous climate. It is a night of late October, 1994

As I lit a cigarette, life, death, cosmos, love and nicotine struck my head as the rain reaching my seat soaked my feet. 

0017 10202018 E

So there.
Is nothing.

All you cried. All this angles of existence that you thought sliced you, are not there.
All those tears now underneath on an underground current, or on a cloud pouring over a peaceful sea far away.

Gone.

All those sacrifices and bonfires, all that clutching and feasting of a past ever so terrible for you. For all. For no one in particular.

Not here.

Nonetheless, all your body is still there. All your mind also.
All that fire, all that anger, all that jazz.

Is nothing.
So then-

Fall as a cascade inside yourself time and time again, falling on your back from your chair, tumbling down ever so deep, time and time again, palms in your eyes, elbows on the air, deeper and deeper, time and time again, all fear, all courage: until that void where you keep falling becomes the vastness of universe again.

Then with the ever seeing eye alien to time and nature, tell me what you see.
I won't understand.
I'm not yet there.
So there.