martes, 1 de septiembre de 2015

207. Mi posibilidad

207. Mi posibilidad

Nadie sabe del duelo que en silencio
resisto cada tarde entre la gente,
el esfuerzo brutal, casi demente
entrenando en la fuerza que potencio.

Todos ven una cifra que sonríe
sin dolores, sin nada que le turbe,
un tipo que transita por la urbe
sin que nada le empuje o le desvíe.

Mas lo cierto es que espero que la noche
me cure de la voz que no consigo
me llene los oídos cada día.

Su presencia tranquila como broche
a tanto fatigar sin un amigo
mi posibilidad de cobardía.

lunes, 31 de agosto de 2015

Journal 28

Journal 28

Before the preys fall again, before hurry comes back, before everything has a motive and an objective again, in the most extreme instant, the only one of night, day, life, in that before is where persistence is conceived. I live it so I suspect it and I silence it, with my feet on the ground and my heart in every world possible, with green lights and orange lights, I say no to those things I should know how to accept, I want more than I can, I can more than I want, I turn myself into an executioner who lets go of the rope that holds the roughen and anxious blade looking for my neck wrapped in the hardest loneliness.

Eleusis every day, the sweetness of deception, the triumph of deception, and a loud slap on everything that is useful. I prepare the final race that has only a dry log as I commanded. From a word to no word, from every place to none, from a date to all of them, from a human to everybody, so that from everybody, by everybody, it comes back to me, torn to pieces that could ask anyone to put them back together, with so many people willing and even eager to do so, but I ended up doing it myself so that nobody would come to show me the emotional urgency for me to do it.

Your lights off, the light of your feelings, or in shadows. You want someone to turn them on, but do not know all the fragile iris you would hurt if that happened.  Little by little you are learning that somebody’s knowledge of you might crash you, since humility has barely touched you and you are not even aware of the fact its idea has already drawn you.

A heart must be buried so we can see how it stops growing at the time it grows while waiting. Walking the darkest corridors, between the light of what has been lost and the affection that has been undeservedly felt and that subsided with unexpected frustration, to understand the context in which you do not know what is worse, finding what was not supposed to be found, or taking some neighboring path where all the possible damage would no longer hurt as much as yesterday. Mourning.

And it is late already, even though there are people still coming. We have already learned that a day may be “nice” with or without rain, or it may be “ugly” with or without sun. There is always someone who loses, there is always someone who gives more than he gets, or receives more than he gives, there is always lack of understanding, ingratitude, or a friendly gesture, a brotherly action beyond any law-abiding weighing scale. It is always like this with you. But it is not like that here, because we who are here are not like that, because unlike the rest of you, we are fulfilled power, a fortress. We do not need to define good or evil to do what is right, we do not need to be loved back, we do not question anything, we simply have the certainty that we are going to die and are authorized to talk about everything, just like Villon.

But we are suspicious; we have the school of however inside us. We live our faith in unbelief and in the creed. Not only in what we do or what we do not do, not only in what we know, but also in what we imagine. Since when we see them dressed, we effortlessly visualize them naked, since we look at ourselves and do not find insurmountable differences, we live in smoke and breathe an ongoing ecstasy  in the place where uneasiness intensifies looks, where the pieces do not fit completely; in that field they call temptation, with an echo of order that has been misplaced, but was not achieved, and if it was achieved it did not last, because if it lasts it has no end, because only what was never created or generated remains.

Meanwhile, hours of emotions, all of them with their very peculiar intensity, and all of them, in us, with their  however counterweight for pulling and pushing while experiencing what is possible. 

206. Herida o cicatriz

"Dime el nombre del que inventó el amor, y luego muéstrame el árbol en donde lo ahorcaron".

Échame a los lobos de pronto y sin aviso
y ahí verás como retorno vuelto líder
de una manada toda ardiente de venganza
capaz de hacer de cada día diez infiernos.

O mira el fondo de mis ojos - su negrura -
y aprende el beso que propongo a tus demonios,
la demencial despertenencia con que alcanzo
ser de cualquiera sanador de suaves formas.

Pasiva-mente no me sirves, pues me privas
del gozo enorme de probar la dimensión
de mis deseos, lo vital de mi querencia.

Así que toma al fin partido y dime el nombre
del verbo horrible que te aparta de mis ángeles.
Define al fin si voy de herida o cicatriz.

domingo, 30 de agosto de 2015

205. Razones de la persistencia 1

"Lo que sabe es poco, pero pesa, como los higos secos en el bolso del pobre".
Julio Cortázar. Masaccio.

Yo tomo las variables y consigo una regla
sujeto lo inasible y lo traigo a mi lado,
expulso de mis días cualquier principio vano
y, sobre todo, evito ser víctima de quejas.

Así construyo horarios que no conciben penas
almanaques sin yerros que incluyen negro y blanco,
rutinas que comprenden justo esfuerzo y descanso,
logísticas exactas en el cielo y la tierra.

Pero de poco sirve la alegría del docto
cuando pilla el secreto que ocultan los reptiles
si a quien quiere lo sepa sólo mira su ombligo.

Aunque de mucho sirve la potencia del loco
si asume sus errores de sembrador terrible

mirándose las manos pletóricas de higos.