martes, 17 de junio de 2014

Puta Madre (va de nuez)

Este poema, escrito en 2009 sale en mis 'Poemas Perrones pa' la Raza'. Su vigencia se muestra, hasta la fecha, inagotable. Dense las tres. 

Al filo de la miel
se derriten constelaciones
y la ternura
es brutal.

hemos desafiado a las lámparas,
con tus pupilas mantequilla,
y la mar de fluorescencias
vacilando tus pestañas.

la quietud es un himno
pero hace tanto que no dejo de cantar.
mientras te preguntas cosas serias
que nada tienen que ver con el tiempo:

avionazo decapitados Pemex 
narcomenudeo secuestrados Telmex
walmart super k nicotina

defiendo el espacio,
cediendo el territorio,
y llueven flores de colores oscilantes,
y soñamos con rebeliones y semáforos rotos.

un beso quizás,
uno lejos del capital;
una caricia quizás,
una desprovista del pánico:

eta zetas afi
panchitos poetas malditos doritos
banco mundial fmi tlc

que podría escribir
un tremendo poema 
de amor.
solo tomo café,
busco culpables
me fatiga la indignación, y
abrazo la angustia:

'colgó los tenis' 'cenan plomo' 'su último danzón'
crisis deuda inversión
duvalin coca cola ricolino inflación

yo soy menos,
tu más-turbas los rayos del sol;
yo soy más,
tu menos-precias lo inmediato:

pri pan prd 
jumex aeromex dvd
privatización inmigración importación

yo soy menos,
tu más-ticas mi sopa de letras;
yo soy más,
tu menos mal que no regresas:

mexicana mariguana springbreak
pgr pfp ddt
alpura silicona maizena

pero ya
da lo mismo,
y ni un segundo extra les ofrezco
ahora que tengo mil brazos
y sé bailar salsa.

olvida mi nombre
cancela mi servicio
cierra la cortina
borra mi historial:

televisa tv azteca mtv
madonna belanova ketamina
china cocaína china

doce meses sin intereses

-(credencial para votar)
ven, disfruta nuestras rebajas
-(credencial para votar)
-(credencial para votar).

Al filo de la miel
se derriten constelaciones
y la ternura
es brutal.
que no me canso de tararear
odas a la dulzura, a ritmo de quebradita huasteca ciber-punk,
y de intercambiar mensajes cochinos con la diosa a través
de mi celular.

que no he cesado de
y perder

y perder

y perder

y perder

el aliento.

martes, 3 de junio de 2014

suck at math

Add a windmill,
add dirt
--lots of it--;
add a brute swirl of light,
a blaze of stranded chaos
disturbing every bit of matter
with its tongue. Add color. Period.

Add glitter,
neon lollipops, a shitty remix soundtrack playing in the back,
a confederacy of sly remarks and witty comebacks.
Add a martini glass.

Add the delta of a river,
add arms
--literally--(many of them).
Add more,
and have them blur into constellations.

Add that fresh sparkle
of rainbows undoing space
in any given drop
of water. Add laughter (or giggles,
if you rather).

Add mud
and the flicker of dilated pupils
under the strain of awe.
Add pieces of what is to be,
add ennui and repetition. Add
trepidation and stolen glances.
Keep adding.

Add an amusement park,
call it "now",
call it "mind",
call it "me",
call it by its true name,
while adding
a bubble bath of distractions,
a marmelade rhizome of rhetorical questions,
a frothing fountain at the mercy of chance. Add possibility.
Add bewilderment, and glam rock
and a tablespoon of "who gives a fuck?"

Add the angles of a diamond,
add attempted prayer books
and a urge to make sense.
Add a collection of tropes,
an eagerness to connect
and some bitter flower known as irony.
Add caramel,
mild psychotropic substances, hot fudge, ferocity
and a bright fuckin' cherry on top.

Add dollar bills
--make them hundreds;
make them more-- and then some. Make it so there is no final sum.
Add vividness
(lovely particles of filth)
and an urge for comfort. Add
and all the ways they stare back at you. Add
an irrational number dictating the curve of lips. Add a rose.

Add compulsion.
Add apples. Make them green. Make them grow.
Chewing gum, pop corn and tv commercials.
Subtract the weight of dreams,
divide the time by time (till it cracks like a whip),
multiply by the daze of desire (baptize your thoughts in fire).
Crosscheck. Double check the digits.
Then add the tip.

Add masturbation,
and soprano's cries
breaking windows
and hearts, and flight schedules and stopwatches.
Add velocity,
make it exponential,
factor in assorted amounts of infinity
and g-spots
and emotional undertones
and complexity beyond recognition. Add preservatives and soda.

Add intoxication, moonlight, hubris and
simplicity. Add dewdrops,
whispers, the taste of pussy, the
capacity to listen and a sea of attention. Add fever
and dread. Add silver,
add gold, and all the things she said
and all the things better left untold.

Add ten times your weight in pain
and shake it up--fuck it,
make it a hundred times your weight in pain, to keep you busy, to keep you
guessing--. Add all the shit bound to happen,
add the smell of hospital emergency rooms,
and a one way ticket. Add the rest stop.

Add more confusion,
add more confusion,
elation, euphoria tinted eyes savoring dawn, add
melancholy and killer instincts. Add excuses and a hint
of compassion. Just a hint, and a razor-blade.

Add poorly formulated apologies.
Add ambivalence.
Add admiration.
Add an ease for fascination.
Add cloth.
Add soap.
Add a whole DJ set of symptoms.
Add denial.

Keep adding. Keep at it. Keep taking notes. Keep paying up.
Add some sort of sugar.
Add a keen sense of expansion,
and the axis of tenderness. Add a chaser of lemon.

Add a map.
Forget it.
Forget about it.
Mumble the right answer.
And doubt.

Quit counting.
Keep adding.
Give it away.
Add more courage than previously considered necessary.
Subtract yourself from the equation.
Stir slowly.
Serve medium rare.