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

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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.

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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.

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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.