Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Crooning Milk




Drinking out of the bottle.
Cold milk pouring down the corner
Of your mouth,
Like a white morning spring.

You use the tip of your sleeve
To try to contain it;
A tethering touch, a dam
At the tip of your tongue.

And you wait for the kettle to croon,
At cockcrow,
Like a hot morning stream.
Warm water sunrise melody.

Sizzling springs and mesmerizing
Coffee pots.
Crystal cereal crispy waiting
For the sudden sodden flood.

Sitting in front of your PC,
Soaking it all in,
Breathing deeply for the first time today.
It's morning folks,
Go get a glass of OJ!

A.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Laundry Laureate


Numb elbow,
Cotton arm,
Sometimes I cycle myself in the warm.

I centrifuge my mind.

Anti-wrinkle spin.

New label
Softener born,
Sometimes I fold myself back to front.

I iron my mind.

A hit of steam.

Going back home,
Returning to the hole.
Sometimes a I drown myself in a machine's womb.

I drain my mind.

A drop of bleach.

Rinsed grammar,
And shrunk verses.
Sometimes I lose myself in artificial mazes.

I whiten my mind.

A



Friday, October 24, 2008

Para Diego

Te has acostumbrado los ojos

a mirar, como hacen los valientes,

directo a la luz,

al tiempo que yo rechazo

despegarme la sábana,

e invento,

excusas (tan de otoño)

enfrentando mi cuerpo a la mentira

hasta vencer las piernas

al salir

y convencerte que es un día más.



Tal vez ahora lleguemos a entendernos

aunque ya no recuerde

el sabor de un cumpleaños.

A?

Felicidades, Diego, te regalo un poema, tu poema, pero cambiado, alejandrado.
Me gustó mucho. Quizás sí tengas que celebrar tus años.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Homecoming Homegoing

Ten guests for breakfast
all wearing jeans and sweaters.
Blue, golden, yellow.
Wakey, wakey, 
eggs and bakey.

One intruder
showering in the dark,
rejecting the mimosa kiss,
not raising the bar. 

She's not awake yet.
She crawls, she moans.
She gives away a pork smile.
She chucks on a piece of toast.

Ten greasy dishes,
ten sticky grins.
Another eggy morning.
Wakey, wakey,
eggs and bakey.

A

Sunday, September 21, 2008

American Lunch Box


I never ate at a US school cafeteria but my mind stole that TV imagery and packed it tightly in a blue tin box. I am part of your everyday American lunch.



I am a life experience thief.
I will go after your peanut
Butter and jelly sandwich
Before I even know it exists.

Global thirst is my
Target.
Condensed milk in your
Tea.

Soy beans and Spanish
Ham,
Hunger of the red and white
Brand.

Golden arches hold my
Universal childhood's swing:
It's the world's endless playground,
Come and spice my
Chicken wings.

I grew up in an Oxo castle.
I had Marmite to spread.
Animal blood,
Black pudding,
Capitalism in Paris.

I am a life experience thief.
I'm your hunger,
I'm your thirst.
Take me out or dine me in.
Cross me out of every menu,
Or I'll try to eat you first.

A

Monday, September 8, 2008

Imagine the USA


Imagine you are to cross the United States of America by car in two weeks. Let's make this hypothetical situation a bit more realistic by garnishing it with some juicier details. For example, let's imagine the car you're driving is a white Acura Integra, 1990, called Lisa. Let's imagine you have Morcheeba paying on the external CD player that really did it for you when you were considering if buying that car was a good idea in the first place. Imagine you decide to start your trip in Newark, Delaware, and imagine your final destination is Phoenix, Arizona. Originally you wanted to go as far as California, but you have realized that you don't have enough time, or money for those extra miles. However, you leave some space in your imagination for a two-day excursion to the Grand Canyon.

Now, imagine you are in that car, zooming across States and borders. And now imagine you decide to play a game noting down all the different State number plates you see on the road. Well, here is the list you will have by the end of your journey:

Delaware
Pennsylvania
New Jersey
New York
Virginia
West Virginia
North Carolina
Maryland
South Carolina
Ohio 10
Kentucky
Massachusetts
Mississippi
Missouri
Texas
Oklahoma
Wisconsin
Alabama
Maine
Kansas 20
Indiana
Iowa
Illinois
Tennessee
Georgia

(At this point your blue pen has ran out of ink and you change to a black Sharpie)


Michigan
Utah
Florida
Minnesota
South Dakota 30
California
Arkansas
Washington
New Mexico
Nebraska
Idaho
Louisiana
North Dakota
Hawaii
Montana 40

Nevada

Colorado
Wyoming


(Here you draw an horizontal line. In your mind you know you are separating US States from other countries. You don't have much space left, so this area looks a bit messy)


Ontario

Vancouver
Hong Kong
Sonora
Chihuahua
A.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Los poemas de Gloria Ocariz

Amiga Gloria, esto es lo menos que puedo hacer por ti.
Esperemos que el mundo comparta tu gloria.

"Un pajarillo cantando
me despertó esta mañana
y, en su cántico me dijo:
¡Que me voy a La Solana!
Porque hoy, 21 de Abril,
Cumple años tu hermana.
¡Espera, que voy contigo!
le grité.
Me levanté de la cama.
Me afeité, puse un abrigo.
Presto llegué a la ventana y,
el pájaro se había ido.
Miré y lo vi, alto, muy alto volaba,
Con dirección muy segura,
Derechito a La Solana
Le grité por si me oía:
¡Un beso dale a mi hermana!
Y, como era muy temprano,
Me fui de nuevo a la cama"

Gloria Ocariz Partearroyo

"Ya se fueron las sombras
de la noche a esos mundos
en donde la quietud del corazón va buscando
la calma que no da la vida"

Gloria Ocariz Partearroyo

"La lluvia va cayendo
Y el farol se va apagando
¿Cuáles son los pensamientos de
los que pasan por la calle?
Aquel amor que se fue o
Aquel trabajo que no llegó.
Esperemos mejores tiempos"

Gloria Ocariz Partearroyo

A Gloria la conocí mientras trabajaba en el Centro de Día de la Comunidad de Madrid de la calle Sagasta, era una de las socias y su compañía hizo, sin duda, que ir a trabajar fuera un poco más ameno.
A.

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Cliché a punto de caramelo

Con el alma
De caramelo
Cliché!
Líquido que se escurre entre
Cliché!
Mis dedos.

Al indiferente aire de tu suspiro
Cliché!
Me cristalizo, me esponjo
A punto de nieve
Cliché!
Deconstructiva y creativa
Cliché!
Como un novedoso plato de cocina
Que te dejo rebañar entre
Cliché!
Mis dedos.

"¡Come, come, que el mundo es tuyo, Lazarillo!"
Cliché!
Ojos como ventanas al abismo
Cliché!
Oculto tras las manchas de grasa entre
¡Cliché!
Tus dedos

A

Piel de borrego

Así pasan las horas, como de bolero, desesperadas.
Y tú me dices que me deje de lirismo, que está pasado de moda. Que sea más castiza, más de cerdo a la Riojana.
Pues estoy harta, harta, te digo,
tanto "quizás, quizás, quizás", a ver si no vas a ser tú el de la piel de
Cancionero
Romancero
Cuentero
Cuentista
Gitano
El rey del relato breve y de excusa.
Yo tomaré fragmentos prestados (como decía Martina Klein, los hombres estáis todos tarados, con taras,
Maleados).
¿Pero cómo no hacerlo si estamos contaminados, mezclados?
Mézclate conmigo,
Abrigo
De borrego.
Y tan difícil saber dónde empieza tu cuerpo y termina el mío.
¿Qué es mío? Tú
Quizás.
Tus quizás
Quizás,
Quizás.

A.

Saturday, June 21, 2008

Cantinela del participio en cinco minutos

Secretos en aquella red
Antimosquitos
Envueltos como sobras
En film en
Una nevera del
Trópico o del
Ecuador que para el caso
Es lo mismo.

Prestados los vericuetos de Jorge
Sabido que nada es secreto en la
Era informática. Más
Satisfechos y ufanos. Faltos
De retórica.
La imaginación de una quinceañera,
Que siempre seas tú el que muerda
Mi lengua y
Que siempre sea mi sostén el que cuelgue de
Tu silla.

Photoshop plenamente romántico
Que resten atávicos los celos y archivos
Manipulados.
Modificada la luz del recuerdo,
Amordazado por la tenue línea de tu
Sonrisa.

En medio del océano o
Bebiendo de la parra,
El orden de los factores
seguirá siendo el mismo.

A.

Sunday, May 25, 2008

Picnic


En un increíble momento de gracia
Se ribeteaban versos, a puntadas de ensalada
De verano, de tomates y patatas
De mantelería fina y tierna cubertería de usar
Y tirar.

Sonreía y se imaginaba vista desde fuera
Como una escena de un anuncio de champú
Lisa y sedosa su
Sonrisa de agua, de patata, de sal y limón
Sus dientes repletos de poesía
Dientes panteístas llenos de alegría
Y de mantelería fina y cubertería aún mejor.

Una caña con migas de pan,
Las hormigas correteando pierna arriba,
El zumbido de su amiga, el sueño panzón,
El revolcón sobre la mantelería fina,
Poniéndose a tiro,
Y los vasos rojos de cartón.

A.

Echoes

What you read now will disappear.
Will flow and blow away in a momentary
graceful state. Occupying again the space
occupied in my shallow embrace.

A
*Free interpretation of one of Jorge Drexler's echoes.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

suicidium; sui caedere


Suicide
.n. The intentional killing of oneself. Ironically, in most states (US) suicide is a crime, but if successful there is no one to punish.

Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Carmen's Interlocutor, my drawer

Carmen Martín Gaite said that her need for writing came from her constant and failed search for the perfect interlocutor and insisted upon the fact that people wouldn't need to write if they had someone who would listen. She was so obsessed about this some critics considered her work mono-thematic, saying that frustrated search was the one and only topic of her novels. I won't go as far as calling this lady "obsessive" but she did write a book called The Perfect Interlocutor.

In my case, the search is a little more modest. Around 1994 I started writing a diary. I can't really recall the exact date as all my memories of primary school are just that, primary school, and I seem to have stored all memories from 1988 (when I believe it's my first memory) to 1997 in the same box. Nearly ten years of infant life tangled in the same drawer, all mixed up with socks and knickers. (That it's clearly an exaggeration for I would never dare to mix socks and knickers, that'll be simply too chaotic).

The fact is, I seem to be writing increasingly less. Funny that, increasingly (like those red lines in graphs) less (like skimmed yogurts). I am one of those people that would expose themselves to the slightest sympathetic smile and will dump all their mental dribble there and then. Should I be quieter and write it all instead? I do need to improve my writing skills.

a.







Friday, March 28, 2008

The Sugary Turmoil of a Rugger Bugger (pink icing version)









Icing decorations:


Tulle tutu.
She spins and spins like sugar.
Tutu tulle.
Confectionery light pink frugal
Sugar for baking,
For dancing,
For spinning around her.
Like the sprocket wheel of
A desperate housewife in a condo gym.
Bugger.

Rugger. Ruggering balls, kicked around her,
Buffeting her like a prawn in a 10 dollar buffet.
Macho men eating nachos, cheesing off, edible fair.
For baking,
For fasting,
For fluttering around her.
Like the dustless wing of
A desperate moth under children power.
Buffalo wings.

Under the icing decorations:

What are little girls made of?
"Sugar and spice, and all that's nice;
That's what little girls are made of."

What are little boys made of?
"Snaps and snails, and puppy-dog's tails;
That's what little boys are made of."

A.

Friday, February 29, 2008

"¿Conoces al boticario del pueblo al lado de Candelario?
En vez de cabeza,
Tiene una cereza.
No ve ni torta, claro."

(Do you know the apothecary
from that village next to Candelario?

Instead of a head,
He's got a cherry.
He's as blind as a bat, of course)

Laurence Saum wrote something like this years and years ago and for some strange reason his daughter remembered it today.

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Bleak Rabbits

Long, lank, bleak,
Black or dark blue.
He always left them behind,
Every morning I would find
One of them.
Heydays, even two.

Long, lank, bleak,
Black or dark blue.
He would ogle down to them
With tender resolution,
A pamper touch,
A cushioning nest,
They deserved a good
Long day rest. In
His denim left pocket.

Long, lank, bleak,
Black or dark blue.
I would get dressed
And perfumed in ink scent, I
Would give a cursory look
On the skew, a
Scanty glimpse
Of his stationary jewelry.
Color scrutiny,
Bleak black or dark blue.

Why would he left them behind?
Didn't he care for them?
He was devoted to their shape,
Color and baneful intentions.
I had seen it happen,
Seen them laying abandoned,
On my murky desk,
Waiting for the grasp
Of his right brown hand,
A lift, an elevation,
A jean, a tight warren,
For pens, for they are not rabbits,
Long, lank, bleak,
Black or dark blue.

A.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

Peasant Patch

"Fold your hands,
Child,
You walk like a peasant"

Going to the vegetable
Patch,
Choosing the right peas to
Carry in your apron pocket.


Pocketing little round
Worlds full of little round
Eyelashes wishes.
Green worlds born
Through your beetle eyes.


Choosing the shiniest
Cockroaches, the biggest
Sluggish slugs,
Sticky and with their tinny
Hearts ticking
Under their tender gluey skin.

So easy to squeeze.
He always cherished
His bugs.


The biggest bugger bug of all,
A king's fruity heart.

He took me to his vegetable patch,
He chose the roundest peas, and
His favorite slugs and marble beans.
A bugger world just for me.
I smiled and put it in my apron pocket.

A.

Sappy. Soap. Soup.

Sappy.
Soap.
Soup.

Sappy, soapy soup.
Tomato soup
In a bread bowl.
In my T-shirt,
Running down my arm pit.

Pita bread,
Playing Ping-Pong
In bed.
A shower pond.

The soapy soup
Of our first shower,
Hot soup
And a spoon of glower.

Running drops,
Soapy soup,
Creamy me,
Sappy you.
The shiny smile,
Of curtailing steam.

A.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

In a manner of speaking
I was told
I loved your silence
Beyond words

A

Monday, February 18, 2008

Disgrace

(Sometimes it's better to borrow someone else's words...)

But one day we woke to our disgrace; our house
a coldness of rooms, each nursing
a thickening cyst of dust and gloom.
We had not been home in our hearts for months.

And how our words changed. Dead flies in a web.
How they stiffened and blackened. Cherished italics
suddenly sour on our tongues, obscenities
spraying themselves on the wall in my head.

Woke to your clothes like a corpse on the floor,
the small deaths of lightbulbs pining all day
in my ears, their echoes audible tears;
nothing we would not do to make it
worse

and worse. Into the night with the wrong language,
waving and pointing, the shadows of hands
huge in the bedroom. Dreamed of a naked crawl
from a dead place over the other; both of us. Woke.

Woke to an absence of grace; the still-life
of a meal, untouched, wine-bottle, empty, ashtray,
full. In our sullen kitchen, the fridge
hardened its cool heart, selfish as art, hummed.

To a bowl of apples rotten to the core. Lame shoes
empty in the hall where our voices asked
for a message after the tone, the telephone
pressing its ear to distant, invisible lips.

And our garden bowing its head, vulnerable flowers
unseen in the dusk as we shouted in silhouette.
Woke to the screaming alarm, the banging door,
the house-plants trembling in their brittle soil. Total

Disgrace. Up in the dark to stand at the window,
counting the years to arrive there, faithless,
unpenitent. Woke to the meaningless stars, you
and me both, lost. Inconsolable vowels from the next room.

Carol Ann Duffy. Mean Time

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Saliva bomb

You dropped the bomb
Y hace frío en mi corazón.

Like an obliterating storm
Revolviéndolo todo a mi alredor.

Nothing keeps me from swallowing
Mi corazón de hielo,
But it's too cold and hard and
I need to ask you for help.
Un torrente de saliva, caliente.
La mía,
Or is it yours?

Escupe dentro de mí.

A.

Friday, February 15, 2008

Transcription Note

Transcription Note

I believe it is about time to open the contents of this blog to public reading and criticism. I did not want to rush their cyberspace exposure as words are characterized by their volatile nature and hasty reading could have led to misunderstandings.

The pages included in this blog were found in a remote corner of conscience around December 2007 and ever since then I have carried out the task of translating and classifying them. As it happened with early 20th Century novels in Spain, the editor has remained loyal to the written words, maintaining the original style and even spelling mistakes, just as they appeared in the original notes. Nonetheless, as it happened then, the editor has chosen to delete and hide certain paragraphs and entries whose crudity could upset the gentle reader. The final result could be interpreted as maimed, but certain things are better kept quiet.

The eerie editor,
Kangaatsiaq, 15th February 2008

Monday, February 11, 2008

Traffic silhouettes

A boy with a cherry flavor chap stick.
Long, black, plastic hair, wavy and reflecting
Red and green lights.
She can only see his
Silhouette.
Traffic and cherry drops of running condensation melting
On the window pane like a
Teenage peccadillo.

She lifts
A finger and presses
Against the glass.
A wake of mint and cherry shivers follow
Her. Half a hook starting from the top right, the beginning of a Spanish kiss.

They become silhouettes when their bodies finally met.

A.

Thursday, February 7, 2008

-I like the name: eerie conditions

If only you knew how really eerie they are

regular shooshee


Today, talking to you, you kept repeating this Malay word whenever we had a coincidence.
Podría escribir mi vida contando casualidades. I should pay more attention to real shit instead of gamboling from cloud to cloud.

Even now I feel the thrill of danger.

Man, I could kill for half a dozen Philly rolls.

Abbreviations

Abbreviations: HUS, hemolytic uremic syndrome • D+ HUS, diarrhea-associated hemolytic uremic syndrome • DIC, disseminated intravascular coagulation • SP-HUS Streptococcus pneumoniae-associated hemolytic uremic síndrome