Sunday, June 15, 2014

AMANUENSE


Escurridizo el soplo, tiempo que se disipa
en dimensiones: cabeza y cola de la llama.
Escribe entonces la historia sutil de la luz,
su epidérmica ascensión a los instantes.

Has quedado de testigo: son tuyos los fragmentos.

Ernesto G.

Thursday, June 5, 2014

EVOLUTION

My hands, a tentacle, beliefs, and the cross.
Humidity is the rose that hangs from the eternal garden
as the pyramids create the theories of evolution.
We are sophisticated monkeys, they tell us,
scientists that know the answer to every question:
but they are monkeys, too, so why should we believe them?
Humidity is a sin, but water brings forth life,
so is the absence of sin also the absence of life?
My hands are tentacles: I have an uncontrollable desire
to touch everything around me, but I´m a monkey:
evolution has done a poor job with me.
I have beliefs, a monkey with beliefs,
and crosses  and pyramids intrigue me:
the geometry of religion.

There are no eternal gardens,
just theories about why disappear.


Ernesto G.
5 de junio de 2014



Tuesday, June 3, 2014

TRINITY


This is what I see: blood stains kissing the cheeks
of an infant swallowed by the hands of time.
I was that infant. I arose from the living and
died slowly thereafter. This is I what I claim.
I have read books, countless books, seeking
salvation: a word can shatter invisible mirrors.
I wanted to seek the Word. I wanted to be the Word.
In an old cemetery I slaughtered the most sacred vision.
I planted a seed and ran away. This is what I claim.
Every day, every single day, I digest hundreds of sounds.
I dig the earth looking for more. I can never have enough.
I find bodies, old muses, desires, and useless syllables.
Destruction has it own syntax. This is what I claim.
This is what I hear: the noise of the butcher as he cuts the meat,
blood in his hands, sweat on his forehead, guilt in his eyes.
I am the butcher. I am the meat. I am the blood.
This is my holy trinity. This is what I claim.
Ernesto G.
June 3, 2014

Saturday, May 24, 2014

VANO



Vano el oro a mí asiste con sus brillos y medallas,
vano el cerco prodigioso de la sangre, discípulos,
con la solida razón vamos derecho al matadero,
dioses, reses, símbolos, atómicas figuras del todo,
allá van nuestros húmedas corazas, la epidermis,
los puentes cruzados hace siglos por pies extraños:
es esta nuestra voz desde el abismo, sempiternos,
rectilíneos, aritméticos, algebraicos, derrotados.
Vano el oro y sus contornos, vano el fastuoso
comedero de vísceras, hígados, estómagos, arterias:
vano el río que fluye incesante en nuestras cabezas.

Ernesto G.

Sunday, May 4, 2014

THE DEAD


“…the dead injure me with attentions, and nothing can happen.”
                                                                                                Sylvia Plath

Porque están ahí y los escucho
y ellos me escuchan a mí,
sus voces son mi voz,
y mi voz es a veces un eco impreciso,
sonidos que han mutado.
…the dead injure me with attentions…
Me hablan como si yo fuera uno de ellos.
Llenan las noches de mensajes inconclusos.
Me piden que les abra ciertas puertas:
manojo de llaves oxidadas, cerraduras chirriantes.
Yo obedezco mecánicamente,
repito sus cantos, cierro los ojos,
salto en pedazos hacia la noche.


Ernesto G.