Thursday, August 27, 2009

Esto no es cine

recorriendo mi propio blog me encontré con estos "poemas". Hay varios, pero bueno, dejo estos. Espero que los disfrunten.

3 poema de esos

1. Sin título


2. Yema de huevo presionada

¿dos puntos o un sandwich? húmedo rojo de serpenteo intenso en catsup

estrepitosfera doble sin lechuga,

pared llenada, lúbrica, de Hermes con la cual hace pivotar calor desde su coke light

la ameba soldó linea con línea de araña el tunel sin límite de la garganta al estómago

algo para curvar, zigzag, patata frita

boogie-woogie diagramático una para llevar

Hermes que fluye cuando fue separado de lo que fuera con su cajita feliz

3. poema en inglés original al final, traducción primero

Sale y vale
Vale de despensa
Dispensa esta madre
Pobre niña
De la periferia

(Inglés, original)

Goes in
Goes out
Goes out and is worth it
Worth it for groceries
Excuse this mother
Little girl
From the projects

Esos tiempos...

Monday, August 24, 2009

25th hour

Give me the word and I'll take a left turn.

Left turn to where?

Wherever you want. Take the GW Bridge and go west. Get you stitched up somewhere and keep going. Find a nice little town


I'm saying if you want. If that's what you want, I'll do it. We'll drive and keep driving. Head out to the middle of nowhere.
Find a nice little town.
Find a bar, and I'll buy us drinks. I haven't had a drink in nineteen years, but I'll have one with you. And then I'll leave.
I'll tell you don't ever write me, don't ever come visit. I'll tell you I believe in God's Kingdom and I believe I'll be with you again, and your mother. But not in this lifetime.
You get a job somewhere, a job that pays cash, a boss who doesn't ask questions, and you make a new life, and you never come back.
You find the right people and you get yourself papers, a driver's license. And then you wait. People get caught when they come home. But you're never coming
And maybe— and this is dangerous— but maybe after a couple years you send word to Naturelle.
You forget about New York. You can't come back. You can't call, you can't write.
And maybe one day, years from now, long after I'm dead and gone, you gather your whole family together and you tell them the truth. Who you are and where you came from.
You tell them the whole thing. And then you ask them if they know how lucky they are to be there.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

The Wall


(When The Tigers Broke Free)

It was just before dawn
One miserable morning in black 'forty four.
When the forward commander
Was told to sit tight
When he asked that his men be withdrawn.
And the Generals gave thanks
As the other ranks held back
The enemy tanks for a while.
And the Anzio bridgehead
Was held for the price
Of a few hundred ordinary lives.

And kind old King George
Sent Mother a note
When he heard that father was gone.
It was, I recall,
In the form of a scroll,
With gold leaf and all.
And I found it one day
In a drawer of old photographs, hidden away.
And my eyes still grow damp to remember
His Majesty signed
With his own rubber stamp.

It was dark all around.
There was frost in the ground
When the tigers broke free.
And no one survived
From the Royal Fusiliers Company C.
They were all left behind,
Most of them dead,
The rest of them dying.
And that's how the High Command
Took my daddy from me.