Tuesday, October 14, 2014


Desde una soledad sin nombre,
piedra símbolo en la mano,
canto todo de la nada,
luz de tiempo compartido,
vela ignota de la noche,
el hombre va de gota en gota,
lluvia eterna de los signos,
inmutable desnudez de la agonía,
carga incesante de los cuerpos.
Va de gota en gota el hombre,
parábola, destino, fragmento,
laberíntica insistencia de los ecos.

Thursday, September 18, 2014



Broken by the exhausting promise of desire,
the simple man has opened another wine bottle
as he listens to an old jazz record:
smoke and white walls, temperature rising,
thoughts dancing in the hot air.
The simple man is such an interesting sight to see,
hands in his pockets, bare feet, torn shirt, dirty pants,
books all around him, empty bottles, cigarette butts,
blood stains on the floor, countless sheets of paper,
artificial echoes of a natural voice, irrational thoughts
turned into logical verses--such chaotic density.
He dances alone with his multiple shadows,
utters incompressible lines, rapes the syntax of the
English language, deconstructs linguistic approximations
to the concreteness of living, travels unconsciously
to his destiny as he drinks yet another glass of wine.
Such is the density of a simple man.

Ernesto G.

Sunday, June 15, 2014


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


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


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 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.