Wednesday, August 3, 2005
voices
this has been a favorite for a long time ... neruda knows
"Walking Around"
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sucede que entro en las sastrerías y en los cines
marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro
Navegando en un agua de origen y ceniza.
El olor de las peluquerías me hace llorar a gritos.
Sólo quiero un descanso de piedras o de lana,
sólo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines,
ni mercaderías, ni anteojos, ni ascensores.
Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis uñas
y mi pelo y mi sombra.
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sin embargo sería delicioso
asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado
o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja.
Sería belloir por las calles con un cuchillo verde
y dando gritos hasta morir de frío
No quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas,
vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño,
hacia abajo, en las tapias mojadas de la tierra,
absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día.
No quiero para mí tantas desgracias.
No quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba,
de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos
ateridos, muriéndome de pena.
Por eso el día lunes arde como el petróleo
cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de cárcel,
y aúlla en su transcurso como una rueda herida,
y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche.
Y me empuja a ciertos rincones, a ciertas casas húmedas,
a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana,
a ciertas zapaterías con olor a vinagre,a calles espantosas como grietas.
Hay pájaros de color de azufre y horribles intestinos
colgando de las puertas de las casas que odio,
hay dentaduras olvidadas en una cafetera,
hay espejosque debieran haber llorado de vergüenza y espanto,
hay paraguas en todas partes, y venenos, y ombligos.
Yo paseo con calma, con ojos, con zapatos,
con furia, con olvido,
paso, cruzo oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia,
y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre:
calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran
lentas lágrimas sucias.
"Walking Around"
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sucede que entro en las sastrerías y en los cines
marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro
Navegando en un agua de origen y ceniza.
El olor de las peluquerías me hace llorar a gritos.
Sólo quiero un descanso de piedras o de lana,
sólo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines,
ni mercaderías, ni anteojos, ni ascensores.
Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis uñas
y mi pelo y mi sombra.
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sin embargo sería delicioso
asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado
o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja.
Sería belloir por las calles con un cuchillo verde
y dando gritos hasta morir de frío
No quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas,
vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño,
hacia abajo, en las tapias mojadas de la tierra,
absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día.
No quiero para mí tantas desgracias.
No quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba,
de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos
ateridos, muriéndome de pena.
Por eso el día lunes arde como el petróleo
cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de cárcel,
y aúlla en su transcurso como una rueda herida,
y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche.
Y me empuja a ciertos rincones, a ciertas casas húmedas,
a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana,
a ciertas zapaterías con olor a vinagre,a calles espantosas como grietas.
Hay pájaros de color de azufre y horribles intestinos
colgando de las puertas de las casas que odio,
hay dentaduras olvidadas en una cafetera,
hay espejosque debieran haber llorado de vergüenza y espanto,
hay paraguas en todas partes, y venenos, y ombligos.
Yo paseo con calma, con ojos, con zapatos,
con furia, con olvido,
paso, cruzo oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia,
y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre:
calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran
lentas lágrimas sucias.
Monday, July 18, 2005
where i'm coming from
the poem her belly marched through me as
one army. From her nostrils to her feet
she smelled of silence. The inspired cleat
of her glad leg pulled into a sole mass
my separate lusts
her hair was like a gas
evil to feel. Unwieldy….
the bloodbeat
in her fierce laziness tried to repeat
a trick of syncopation Europe has
—. One day i felt a mountain touch me where
I stood (maybe nine miles off). It was spring
sun-stirring. sweetly to the mangling air
muchness of buds mattered. a valley spilled
its tickling river in my eyes,
the killed
world wriggled like a twitched string.
-- ee cummings
one army. From her nostrils to her feet
she smelled of silence. The inspired cleat
of her glad leg pulled into a sole mass
my separate lusts
her hair was like a gas
evil to feel. Unwieldy….
the bloodbeat
in her fierce laziness tried to repeat
a trick of syncopation Europe has
—. One day i felt a mountain touch me where
I stood (maybe nine miles off). It was spring
sun-stirring. sweetly to the mangling air
muchness of buds mattered. a valley spilled
its tickling river in my eyes,
the killed
world wriggled like a twitched string.
-- ee cummings
Saturday, June 18, 2005
corresponding
damn girl i miss you. what are you doing? what could you possibly be filling your time up with now that i am gone? crap in comparison, i'm sure. dude i am trying to figure out whether i should send you this letter that V sent me that is like the most amazing, sweetest thing anyone has ever written to me, but i feel like that may be wrong, BUT we are m.d. styles together and we are only right ... so maybe i will. i keep f you and you are not there and it makes me sad. good news is i am coming down at the end of june to pride march in the village and i totally want to see you maybe you can join us, me and V, we will see i guess. i am just chillin' at my house helping my mom pack and shit, it really sucks. i have no friends and no car here, well really i don't drive but who cares! your plan is high larry us honestly, oh shit were you in nyc when you saw that i keep forgetting, are you in your new place yet? how is it? how are the mens and the womens? good i hope. so are you and love styles through for good? it's weird but i am pretty sure i won't ever see m again, bizzare. anyway my phone is dead but dude i would love to see you some day some how. oh! maybe july4th? you are probably like "riiiiiight", i don't mean to force my presence in your life, but for real b i am not going anywhere, so maybe then we could chill in nyc and run around all love styles and shit. ok so tell mewhere you at youngin', what life is like, and perhaps i will send you the most beautiful love letter ever written. ok mad crazy love styles,
-- a
-- a
Thursday, June 9, 2005
Thursday, May 19, 2005
bashô says
"Midsummer"
Bashô says the body is composed of one hundred bones and nine openings.
Within which flimsy structure the spirit dwells.
Floating by the park at dusk, through the heavy trees,
the white building glides like a ship.
An amber lamp is lit in a top-floor window
and a woman in her robe is leaning on the sill, eyes closed to the sunset.
A violet shadow is pouring down the side of the building from her long hair.
Two pigeons are perched in the next window, against a black room.
Beyond the trees, down a rough slope, the river is winding
around the island, flowing into the sea.
Slowly the mist off the river coils around the building, concealing it.
And just as slowly it lifts.
Only now the woman's lamp is extinguished.
Her window remains open, the curtain flutters,
but there is no sign of her, laid down to sleep in the darkness—
her pale body with its one hundred bones and nine openings
from which the spirit will one day slip, like the mist seeping
back through the trees, along the river, out to sea.
-- Nicholas Christopher
Bashô says the body is composed of one hundred bones and nine openings.
Within which flimsy structure the spirit dwells.
Floating by the park at dusk, through the heavy trees,
the white building glides like a ship.
An amber lamp is lit in a top-floor window
and a woman in her robe is leaning on the sill, eyes closed to the sunset.
A violet shadow is pouring down the side of the building from her long hair.
Two pigeons are perched in the next window, against a black room.
Beyond the trees, down a rough slope, the river is winding
around the island, flowing into the sea.
Slowly the mist off the river coils around the building, concealing it.
And just as slowly it lifts.
Only now the woman's lamp is extinguished.
Her window remains open, the curtain flutters,
but there is no sign of her, laid down to sleep in the darkness—
her pale body with its one hundred bones and nine openings
from which the spirit will one day slip, like the mist seeping
back through the trees, along the river, out to sea.
-- Nicholas Christopher
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Thursday, April 7, 2005
Césaire - the automatic crystal
hullo hullo one more night stop guessing it's me the cave man there are cicadas which deafen both their life and their death there also is the green water of lagoons even drowned I will never be that color to think of you I left all my words at the pawn shop a river of sleds of women bathing in the course of the day blonde as bread and the alcohol of your breasts hullo hullo I would like to be on the clear other side of the earth the tips of your breasts have the color and the taste of that earth hullo hullo one more night there is rain and its gravedigger fingers there is rain putting its foot in its mouth on the roofs the rain ate the sun with chopsticks hullo hullo the enlargement of the crystal that's you...that is you oh absent one in the wind an earthworm bathing beauty when day breaks it is you who will dawn your riverine eyes on the stirred enamel of the islands and in my mind it is you the dazzling maguey of an undertow of eagles under the banyan
Translated by Clayton Eshleman, Annette Smith
Translated by Clayton Eshleman, Annette Smith
Monday, January 3, 2005
pan's great expectations
"Ah! Great Expectations!"
Sam likes to say, "Ah! Great Expectations!" at least three or four times in every conversation. He is twelve years old. Nobody knows what he is talking about when he says it. Sometimes it makes people feel uncomfortable.
Sam likes to say, "Ah! Great Expectations!" at least three or four times in every conversation. He is twelve years old. Nobody knows what he is talking about when he says it. Sometimes it makes people feel uncomfortable.
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