jueves, 30 de julio de 2015

Journal 20

Journal 20

A rock waiting in the bottom of the sea, as a single flower that lives in the inhospitable top of some mountain knows that in the end I would not want to say anything of what I say. The truth is I wish I did not have to, and also I wish I did not know maybe and almost certainly that saying it would be pointless. But what can I do? I am here, between impotence and conviction. Knowing – and now saying – that from the day you were born you had been waiting to hear the music that is playing here, that music you know even though you have not found it, that is played by the soul and that is why it touches mine.  

I do not re-read myself, from time to time I re-read the lives I travelled through, just as you look at the rear mirror before overtaking by the left, and what I see, I wish someone knew, is nothing but past, and what I feel is nothing but present, and it does not become more than the intention of one more moment conceived in which everything could become the way I wanted, an extreme convergence.

I dream of you coming, or that I may not hear your voice again, unable to express any definite possibility, fighting ghosts, ideas, thoughts, intuitions, and things like that. Tied to meanwhile, grabbed by my illusory freedom, burning what is left of my days accompanied by anguish and anxiety that can only be relieved by a source of hope, which was born precisely in that moment in which you were what I pretended, and even more, before the time in which distances of forms gained so much and so much weight, as it usually happens with daily things when you try to establish which absorbs which at a moment full of single gestures.

You are not here, you are with someone else, and nobody or everybody would know what I know about you. There’s mockery in not knowing how to take advantage of what you know, and there is ice in knowing how to. Humility shows up when you judge yourself responsible by not having what you want.


I would have to yield, I would have to go on not yielding ever again, I would have to do what I can, but being a spectator is also one of the possibilities I agree to. Without looking down, just imposing crystals before my eyes. Denying a way for reason, admitting to one, and then one thousand times, the powerful rivers of madness. Because I confess that even though my actions, all of them, are rational, in my eyes they are no more than manifestations of what may or may not be right only at the end of a movie, right at that moment in which nobody will be able to testify regarding the good or evil of the total sun of my actions and of all my inactions.  

181. Lejano

Yo fui el de los asedios de un poema por día
el de los estallidos de pólvora caliente,
quien supo a lo fugaz tratarlo lentamente
ese quien nunca tuvo una mirada fría.

Yo fui de la tristeza su gris fotografía
el que logró certezas equivocadamente,
quien lloró como un hombre, desconsoladamente,
cuando no le creyeron capaz de compañía.

Y desde ahí, en silencio, solo, fui levantando
la catedral sin manchas, y a su lado una ermita,
símbolos del que tiene dónde caerse vivo.

Y habiendo sido injusto, ya por rudo o por blando,
de nuevo no me importa si es Ceres o Afrodita
quien a mi verbo vuelve un lejano adjetivo.

miércoles, 29 de julio de 2015

180. Sudor y silencio

"¿Consumió proteínas?" me pregunta el muchacho,
"también carbohidratos", le respondo sonriendo
mientras voy estirando los músculos y el tiempo
que dura la memoria cuando llega el ocaso.

Comienza la tortura y yo suspiro bajo
por la ausencia y tensión que marcan los momentos
después de cada serie, con los pies en el suelo
y el corazón tan lejos por sentir demasiado.

Sé que me fallarán las fuerzas y las ganas
si cedo a la tristeza, esa perra flaquita
que gusta de acostarse enroscada en mis ojos.

Así que apelo al modo en que entreno mi rabia
y todo es un entorno gritándome "¡marica!"
a lo que con sudor y silencio respondo.

martes, 28 de julio de 2015

179. Ese que no se mide

No me detengo demasiado en mis maneras
cuando me aprieta la ansiedad por conocer
cuál es el fondo que me privan de saber
quienes ignoran que he pasado mil barreras.

No voy de fases a lo Pink Floyd, pasajeras,
sino al contrario, de internar y de tener
entre mis sienes el motivo de esconder,
y así cruzar, sin lastimar, largas fronteras.

Yo sé pedir - siempre - perdón si me equivoco
porque me tienen los vulgares como un loco
que no se mide cuando mide a los demás.

Por eso arriesgo hasta mi nombre en bacarás
que no podría yo perder cuando pretendo
eso que pocos ya pretenden, lo estupendo.

Si acaso suena por entonces un estruendo

sólo es mi voz como presagio de un siroco.