Santiago

The stinging sirens
reverberate in the back
of my neck
stretching like a yawn
of these tiresome days
where rain spatters
and clings to glass
as parasites do, or depression.

Countless hours pass
facing the ceiling
eyes open
brain closed
as if the things for which I have wept
have been swept

away.

There's nothing to say
nothing to think
just the wheezing breeze of my asthma
caught in a Santiago smog
and the clogged nostrils
that disturb my sleep
and haunt my fears of death.

There's nothing to breath.


The laundry dries in three days or more
The foul smell of defecation impregnated
at the end of the drying ordeal

The town is filled with the same faces
doing the same things
and you don't seem to have any memories
of them or anything else

Dogs walk in clusters of muddy fur
smelling assholes
looking hungry
and desperate for affection
and they remind you of
the people at bars
rubbing against each other
like assholes
swarming and smiling
with that same hunger
in their eyes
waiting for a lusty stare
that will make them feel special.

The young women are still giggling like
little girls,
and the lines of objects always
dissolve under a mist
of cigarettes and junk

Sometimes I pretend I will do something the next day
like walk or look for a job or return to the dance classes
but then the sun rises
and staring into the ceiling
seems far more attractive.

Advent of the It

The hate forbids
its own retreat.

far into the corner
I
eye
a titillating slug
snuggled in the
basement of a falling cavity
that sneaks its own secrets in
for appointments with the mourn

with an infectious snare
the morbid climbs up in shocks
rocking itself with threats
about weaving glistening
death thrones

It had not been previously contemplated,
the possibility
that this may be it
the graveyard to passions
nuzzled in clicks of ideas
and spurts of mirages
a faithful intercourse
a sorry survival tale

never previously contemplated
the concave choices
crammed between walls
of regret
and age to spew

This may be it
the red light bright
and desiccated petals
dark and famished
under the forgotten garden
of murderous bark
and stark
idle veined leaves.

She leaves.

This may be it
for I can see no further
nor the persian cat
that breaks its beak
to pour its sorrows
with the whip of a tongue

and I can write just as easily
about unfathomable truths
and codes of consent
to dissuade revenge

This may be it
I never thought
I would become as cumbersome
as the pains amongst the spine
or icy mornings
and only my man
says he must look after me
though he cannot conceive
how useless such statement
if this may be it

when the forlorn spoon
drowns in its own breath
and awakes with the acrid
laughter
and gargantuan yawns
off into eternity
at the speed of dark
and batting eyes of
the daylight sleeper

This may be it
when life spends itself away
pursing the lips
with that desire to strangle
impending across the light

JUNE

Alas, June is here

and I insist, there
is something far more humorous
than intelligible about such statement

as funny as how failed athletes
become writers
like jim carrol
and my much mentioned bukowski
and I remind you I have never cared much for sports

as funny as leaving Canada in May
to another winter

as funny as kissing your first boyfriend
for the first time
on April fools day
(1st of the 4th
while his your first
you´re his fourth)

as funny as losing
a condom inside you for a week

as funny as performing 6 times a week
for 3 weeks
as a horse
and realizing the only reason
you ever even auditioned for the show
was because a stranger was jerking off in front of you

as funny as breaking a friendship
with your female friend
after kissing her on the lips
-content with the fact that maybe she's hot
but you're a way better kisser

as funny as rereading some of your poems
and not really understanding them

as funny as being 21
and having unbearable back and knee pains

as funny as losing your virginity to a guy
who says you have the most beautiful
vagina he has ever seen
and not being sure how you feel about the fact
that he's comparing it to over twenty others

as funny as returning to
the exact place you had never wanted to leave
and wishing you had never come back

as funny as not caring
to be a turn off to people anymore
they already haven't done it for you anyway

as funny as thinking that
more than 5 people
have checked your blog

as funny as getting
excessively tired after drinking too
much coffee
and getting insomnia from calmants

as funny as not really knowing
what the hell you´re talking about
and whether or not you wanna
finish up the poem.

Alas, June is here.

intro to jazz

The pills are gone
and the Bukowski book is done
the last pages in his death bed
a skillful redemption
a realization
of that light long sought that
only rose before its execution.
He never knew how great life was
until it was almost gone
unlike my pills
and their heavenly grass scent

They want me to do so many things
things I simply cannot
foreign intricacies
that involve stapling on the smile

We think differently.
they enjoy translating laughter
and good life into happiness
and lift an eyebrow at
the possibility of not knowing
my silence assumed as restrained voice
not ever lack thereof

The shining people, they carry an innocuous speech like:
You're blowing it out of proportion, you're drowning in a glass of water, you worry too much, too deep, tragically ungrateful, excessive dramatization, childish fool, an exaggeration, distortion of reality, and hush I never said that

Only us
with the somber stares
know what it is
and if we become bright again
we shall forget, as all the others have
forgotten
how substantial is the
shrink of self
and attitude of desire,
all needs narrowed down
to three songs of django reinhardt
the clicking of awful and automatic poetry
the magnifying tensions below the neck
and fantasies of sleep

This is what I've become
useless for all art and expression
beyond the push of a button
or the determination of the cock

Ellington's 'caravan' just sprayed in
and if i´d make tunes like that
i wouldn't have to be pressing the repeat button so often
and wondering how late it is

at least I got this jazz MP3
out of that crappy rich kid university.
4,000 money canadian
I think it's worth it
it was daddy's investment anyway
even if I just couldn't learn the theory
or know if it was ellington or not

and though the shining ones claim it's rather early
we think differently, of course