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viernes, 31 de enero de 2014

Concha

Sentí que el corazón comenzó a latirme más fuerte, aunque no más rápido. En seguida, el mareo ganándome la cabeza y la angustia dominándome el vientre, subiendo como sierpe hasta ganar el pecho y cobrar la dimensión de la pata de un elefante. Apenas pude avanzar unos pasos, tres, quizás cuatro, cuando me desplomé de rodillas alargando los brazos en un último movimiento para no irme de cara contra el suelo. Entonces Matilde a los gritos llamando a Sandra, que deja la cocina y se aviene corriendo para trasladar mi cuerpo hasta el auto.

Arcadas, un espasmo, vomito. Manché los pies de Sandra que dice “señor, tranquilo señor, tranquilo señor”, y me acaricia la cabeza, me sujeta los hombros, mientras Matilde al volante le dice “atajale fuerte y tenele boca abajo para que no se ahogue”. A mí me da vergüenza, y también me divierte vomitarle los pies a la Sandra. Pero también siento pena al ver sus uñas mal cortadas, y cuando ahí trato de frenar el sentimiento, entiendo que no puedo. Otro espasmo, vomito de nuevo y la pena crece. Lagrimeo por vomitar, y lagrimeo de lástima. Una lástima asquerosa, inmunda; no, al revés, munda, de este mundo.

El auto se detiene, junto con mi vomitadera, ya no me queda ni bilis. Nubladamente distingo el uniforme de Sandra, todo mojado a la altura del vientre, ¿qué será que piensa de mí? No importa eso; escucho que se abre la puerta del auto, voces de hombres, me sacan. Adiós regazo.

Fue ahora, don Bartolomé, hace unos diez minutos. Escucho que dice Matilde, cuando siento que me posicionan boca abajo sobre una camilla, brazos extendidos en cruz y piernas separadas, para luego recibir en el cuello, las muñecas y los tobillos el ajuste brutal de las correas. ¿Y qué estuvo tomando? Pregunta don Bartolomé, y la hija de puta le dice que no sabe qué mierda habré estado tomando. Le dice entonces que se tranquilice, que por todos los santos le jura que esta vez será la definitiva. No quiero abrir los ojos, todo en mí no quiere hacerlo, pero lo hago. Y veo a Sandra contra la pared con un rosario en las manos, llorando. La lástima me hace temblar.

Escucho la murmuración de instrucciones, y percibo ciertos finísimos roces. Manos que me recorren en el proceso de rasgar mis ropas. En una nada de tiempo estoy completamente desnudo, con sólo las correas como vestiduras intento exhalar un suspiro. Busco una imagen, un grupo de metal, un filósofo, un novelista, una poeta. Nada, ninguna soga, ningún cable. Entonces el miedo. Toda la impotencia.

Don Bartolomé comienza a la altura del riñón derecho, primero las yemas de sus dedos que buscan, luego las palmas que certifican, hasta que sus cuatro dedos se convierten en un puñal que atraviesa mi piel y penetra en mí, para ya dentro convertirse en garra destrozadora. Un grito que no sabía capaz de dar me arrasa la garganta. Don Bartolomé hurga dentro de mí, lloro, él sigue. Entonces da con la primera, la sujeta, la arranca, y la arroja a una palangana que está a los pies de Sandra, que sigue rezando.

Después de arrojar quince conchas a la palangana retira la mano garra, y la lleva hasta la altura del riñón izquierdo para recomenzar. Yo sigo gritando, llorando, rogándome a mí mismo morir. Cuente Matilde, dice, cuente en voz alta. Y la hija de puta cuenta, diez y seis, diez y siete, diez y ocho… cincuenta y seis.

Una parte de mí ha perdido conciencia, pero el dolor persiste como en nebulosa. Un estado animal de sensibilidad en el que todo es blanco o negro y no estás en ninguno de los dos, sino en la tensión del impasse. El enviado del infierno ahora va a por el medio de mi espalda.

Cuente, Matilde, vamos a curarlo a este muchachón, dice don Bartolomé. Y la mano garra vuelve a violarme los adentros, sacando conchas y arrojándolas a la palangana, ya repleta de una fetidez que parece fortalecer los putos rezos de Sandra  que ha comenzado a llorar entre avemaría y avemaría. Ochenta y tres, ochenta y cuatro, ochenta y cinco.

Bendito Dios, dice don Bartolomé, que no le hace asco a la faena y busca remarcar su fama, cuando comienza con las yemas de sus dedos a examinar mi espalda a quince centímetros de mi nuca. Me parece que aquí está la principal, escucho que dice más para sí que para Matilde. Y entonces entra, el muy hijo de mil putas. Yo no puedo creer que se pueda sentir un dolor así, ni llorar ni gritar se puede, ni morir, ni desmayarse. Dentro mío algo que se aferra, y algo externo, dos garras esta vez, un “carajo que es enorme”, y un sonido a rotura, a desprendimiento de roble que se parte en dos. Después un plaf horrible y la concha gigante a la palangana, salpicando la pared, las pantorrillas de Sandra, y la memoria de todos los presentes.

No lo deje solo, dice don Bartolomé. Ya ve que es peligroso para su salud.

jueves, 30 de enero de 2014

Line of defense



Line of defense



Defeating fear cannot be taught

Not before you have been through it

As many times as necessary

To make your skin an impenetrable shell.



And fear remaining within generates another fear

Melting your armor

And intensifying concern without justification.



Dark screams in poorly illuminated streets

Lions that roar their longing for the jungle

Among little men condemned to a salary

Born from little women that adore their destiny.



Capable but reluctant attempting to imbed their claws

In something more than a narrow or broad back

As if the final purpose of all the affections

Have to be limited by law to a unique pile of bones.



The land where pity is cultivated

Will be sown with unfairness

So that the innocent pays for its innocence

And the guilty pretends to delay a time that does not exist.



Opposing thoughts always emerge at a crucial moment

Surprising everybody sooner or later

With the legs still strong and thirsty

Or the heart almost putrid with so much ignominy



Someone known who has been part of you

In a open or hidden way

But whose concern was not accepted

Simply for the fear of pure loneliness



Someone who offers to every human being

The supreme right of ambition

Becoming a simple and precise instrument

From which the ineffable intention slips



Clothed in a great spiral in space

And a haze of color and light

More rigid still than the first impression

But being able to show her claws

When the imagination of one accepting it

She can focus on what will be her first line of defense.

martes, 28 de enero de 2014

Just a little



Just a little



Now, when a little could be enough

And that little is what is missing

Leaving the story uncertain

Because it has lost its end.



Behind the arrangement that was then pretended

The walls outside the pitiful screams

Of those who could but did not want to

And those who wanted but were not able.



Although the sun is still shining

The afternoon already becomes serious

Such as the face of the novice

When understanding that he is no more.



The moles continue secure in their tunnels

As the earth does not take the risk to stop spinning on itself

And although knowing is painful sometimes

The searchers do not cease in their task.



As the sadness in an abandoned camp

In the tiny immensity of everything that was

Where a piece of emptiness is also inserted

Generated by the departure of a companion.



The compass that waits to be used

The time that continues weaving its future silence

And the other way the perception

Of one who remains stubbornly at his locked door.



Being not enough to witness the occurrence

Some of them could not stand the excesses

Together they poured out on a forgotten river

The full cup of a meaningless love



Laughing for lack of desires

That became necessary acquiring importance

And could only be managed with force and skills

But not with torrid surrenders already empty of innocence.



In the destiny of the worms

In the cold hatred that the spikes feel in themselves

And in the perspiration from the armpits of the midwife

In the infinite stupidity of one who did not learn to be cautious.



If part of the moon split

And the vision of a gleam is lost

And if somebody let it be

It will always continue in that way

With the hands almost full of something that nobody wants.

domingo, 26 de enero de 2014

Oc hi d ai



Oc hi d ai



A man sealed his lips

For every word that not included him

And he has decided to start tomorrow

Toward the land where all has surrendered.



Delivering as it should be

For the good sense of his will

Accepting the deficiency of the elements

When he fell and touched dust with his forehead for the first time.



During the plague and after the recovery of certain victims

Making the books and battles their permanent home

Weakening absences and pieces that did not fit

Continually groping the distance between two moments



Without the belief that defends the devoted

With the indefinable such as duty

And not as a yoke that releases from responsibilities

Going along many paths that show the different possibilities.



Sinking his sandals in the slippery sand

Adapting the soles of his feet to the rock

Flexible to the future and strong in the present

Denying to his heart all intention of false calm.



Explaining his story

Narrating it among strangers

Without any apparent purpose

And without the opinion of any disciple

Or the pressure of any master



Although he was always dreaming of a sunset

That occurs step by step

Complying with the extreme reality of returning

Seeming as it arises even more than any possible comprehension

When at the door they are still awaiting you



Having the purpose to leave

That in some way it indicated his return

So that in any part of the path

Certainty was abandoned for vanity

And then suspicious would be confirmed

Rather than forging hope in the most virtuous

For someone who already lives through faith.

viernes, 24 de enero de 2014

Her experiencies



Her experiences



Considering different schools

Hidden under sidewalks of other cities

That bleeds the wounds to clean the pus

Determining the stump that needs to be sealed



Measuring hopelessness and absolutions

While caressing the rebel contour

Of a beast imagined and cherished

That accompanies the thoughts forever



Among insanity, sentiment and emotion

And in good sense, the summit that knows it will not be

Demonstrating in a simple lesson

That everything is necessary beyond reality.



Part of her story or perhaps just a brief part

Has passed within human embraces

Existing the possibility that it have not occurred

Thanks to the tender confusion that her story conveys



Those who pretend to keep in their memories

While their everyday life goes on

When the skin aspired to be loved

Because deeper intentions are banished



Removing all the brightness and the radiance

From the expressions that demonstrate reason

Searching the explanations for the extremes

Perhaps not found in the origin or the end.



After the date of birth occurs

There is one for the first kiss

And another for the first funeral

Without anything that can replace them.



Our own natural impulses

Always conveys the urgency of the condition

The vision that foresees

The consciousness acknowledging it



After the exhaustion in conceiving equilibrium

Avoiding the violation of the force

And still then goes forward vigorously

Like the dagger of the Persian not belonging

To the forger or the bearer

And so radiates the desire of its owner

That perhaps never put a finger on it

But centering his thoughts on it

Transformed all the others to bearers

As a message that should be deciphered in time.



And so the air touches

Foretelling the heat

Granting the right to play

With the vapors of its experiences.