Te he escrito un poema.
No es gran cosa.
Me salió como una premonición,
Entre lágrimas y sonrisas.
Te lo escribí porque
Por el momento me quieres,
Porque eres brillante, y bella,
E indescriptible.
Why can I not forget when forgetting is the cure?
The warm, wet beach hisses and coos, but her allure
Belongs to those who want to rest. I do not want to rest.
“Listen to your doctor,” they say.
“You are but human! You can’t go on like this!”
My nostalgic heart demands that I be verbose, take my time,
Make of my pain a museum, and wander its halls, seeking…?
Ah yes, these yellowed letters in the attic, half-forgotten,
The world is divided into flowers.
Some go to lovers, some to adorn death,
And still others go dropping petals
Like bombs because it is autumn
And there is no hope for life.
Her hand is a vanquished
Castle of sand or cloud,
A hot breeze gone cold,
A heartbeat felt by fingers
Pressed upon a cadaver’s jugular.
Look at me,
This mess of flesh, of blue eyes,
Of tendons and nerve endings
(No, they are not endings).
I can only give you
That which I cannot hand you.
Forever giving gifts
Unwrapped by your eager eyes–
There is hardly room nor need
For my hand in yours.
I am vain.
I want your skin, your dimples, your breasts.
I want to trace your eyebrows with my lips
And border with my hands your hips.
I like to reach a hand
into the unknown.
I like to rise early and predict
The patterns of the clouds.
“When I have a terrible need of — shall I say the word — religion. Then I go out and paint the stars.” – Vincent Van Gogh
A mystery consumes me. I pass the morning in ardent search of last night and furrow my brows as though dreams would return in the grooves of my forehead. That is not enough. Nothing is enough. I never can go faster or slower than one second at a time. My enthusiasm teeters between the unbearable and the blissful. I want to scale the heights of human knowledge, to create art, kisses, love, peace…but the next moment carries the enormity of my desire, and I fall upon the ground of my being like an electric charge in a puddle of amino acids. So I continue, neither collapsed nor elevated. Every sight I see, every thought, however subtle, every word I read or write only adds to the fury: nothing is enough.