Keep to the road

pepsi cap jingles on linoleum floor as it falls from a glass bottle in the afternoon cyber cafe,

I can feel how wonderous life is

from the rusty glass sunny windows and autumn breeze over the computer screens,

raspberry plastic juice bag and crunchy rice chocolate

to keep my belly full on a morning of wind and reality,

always on the move but I sit still here, embracing how life moves by,

at times it´s too slow

to even feel,

so I hope to keep to the road…

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Drifting Thoughts

One slim glass of coca-cola iceless on wood mueble by my pillow where I rest my skin in motionless tranquility so as not to sweat in summer afternoon

adobe tile room,

150 pesos rusty golden coins, a receipt for tomatos, and old Motorola accompany the dewy glass as I sit

and occasionally miss my city as she drifts through my head like breath or waves,

and sometimes her memory even pounds against my bones like veins of blood trembling with heartbeat,

she will always be fuera de la realidad, for her hospitality is rough like pavement and her heart a jungle of chaos;

but her Dream is like roses, an oasis to my soul’s reality.

her promise has fed me, no matter if I fulfill, for the wind has always pushed me where I need to be…

Southern Hemisphere Afternoon

How to describe Chile? A new tierra that has captured me again so close to ocean as though I were a pirate gitana searching for soft sand to lay raices into waiting to kiss in the wind my tesoro…

Today we went again to la feria, rows of corncobs, fresh pescado (fish off the coast that is Chile, todo fresco), peaches, tomatoes 200 pesos/kilo, crates of soily potatoes and peapods, even yellow-red mangos, shampoo, cheetah-print underwear, flowing pants, almost like my vision of Mexico but clearer air and you truly feel so far south, I mean I can sense the equator above my head when I lay toes pointed towards the icy sur…

Still, south and north are only illusions, Earth is spherical, directionless, under the sun and over her, Chile is only South in the eyes of the North, but easily turned, depending on your position, Argentina could be a Northern land, Tierra de Fuego the highest, not lowest, city on the planet…it doesn’t matter, North could be East, South could be West, Space like Ecclesiastes sees equally every molecule under the sun…

Continuing on, we fried three fish in oil, eaten with beer and salt-lemon-lechuga salad, todo rico.

The language, the lilt of every tongue similar, binding every face with shared words, and I, lone Argentine, learning it all de nuevo, familiar tones now, but nothing I mimick, nothing is my own here, for the first time I am in no-man’s land, everything foreign.

Planes roar over our wooden bunk where I feel the blueness of the sky deep in my mahogany huesos I am the clouds and stars and I drink their wind, the universe profound from my lookout, everyone so far, my life ever fading into the deep azul ocean and cielo

I remember when existence simply followed the hours of the day, chocolate cake on porcelain and swirly coffees, sunny windows, shower steam, touchable delight, no loss of sight, no crumbling visions of the future that has become yesterday, just straight, believable, understandable world, now I live outside of patterns which held me together…

But Chile, such grandeur and mysticism in her longitude and vastness, her weeping beauty and dusty barrios, mountains like hands of Dios holding us and releasing our unquiet souls onto stretches of sand and olas, chilling splashes of water bathe our feet, blessed by nature, yet quieted by pain and injustice, somber with disbelief at our companions’ blindness, if the ocean could cease the swelling in our ankles and minds we would be at ease, yet there is a freedom in a nonsensical world, the freedom to live

My Hands are full of Thoughts of you

my hands are full of thoughts of you

my fingertips conscious of your presence

my skin steams with memories

as edible as dreams

you lay simply in my palms, like frankness

your weight as inconceivable

as love.

my eyes swim with words for you

every color my heart has gathered this year

saved for you

each melody and desire bathed in nostalgia.

my lips hold beautiful sights

I want to share with you,

every inch of me is skin pulsing with intentions

and wishes under my surface, over my bones

my body sings when I am alive with you

so much I own I wish to tell you,

you are mine, in silence,

in heat, in rush, in repose, in kiss,

in glance, in gaze, in truth…

Sole Desire

poetry is all;

all my soul and melancholy

seduced by sweet nostalgia and lullaby memory of fuzzy golden home like dream with soft blinking stars like miniature suns filling my summer skin with night warmth, oh

all I desire

is to write.

walk, and inhale, hope for lust and angels, seek countless words,

find myself back in the same corners of world,

always dusty with recollection the way antique wood penetrates senses like past life or milonga,

the deep rust of remembrance eternally kindling my soul’s song,

no–I have no other plan

but to write.

-will never change-

is all I know of existence;

the words which procede witness

and emerge in the depths of our ribs.

Illusions

dissatisfaction rooted in my gut like rotten tree; though immense love for my new city finally wins, I do not know peace, every bone of destiny restless, again rocking my skin to a sense of invisibility like rootlessness like vagabond listlessness sad swaying in wind whole life unknown always shaped by fate’s new game which warps the heart and poisons lungs with esperanza and in finale, you don’t want to live anywhere, nothing will do, nothing works, the world is too small, too grand, too many voices to catch up to, too many desires to fulfill, dissappointment that comes from natural changing waves that confuse minds only desiring stillness, don’t understand my intense incapability to be still, I live by breathing and not by planning, unintelligent, poorly shaped mind, my body remaining in the end standing like a sun dial in a bath of murderous heat–

sun soul jaded under humid sweltering unforgiving streets stone dry like an absense of hope like windowless survival running from metal fence to oasis tile steel fan noisy cramped dark cave store with toothpaste and shortbread and condoms, on the corner of Misery and Paradise once again in different form, all the way South, always finding me, between bliss and craze, the indecision to be happy or to continue on seeking,

well, Happiness is not a choice–it is an illusion,

mood is elusive,

all there is be breath, consumption, lips moving, souls stirring, vaguely wanting, reaching blindly,

for joy is never pure; fear of its pending loss dissolves its magnetic power, crumbling into safe weariness once again.

organized chaos around our ankles like eternity…

Snapshots of City Memory

I am a queen of nostalgia, dark like cold nights, awake and asleep, all at the same time, like memories you can taste again and again, life begins to live, moments begin to happen, my eyes open like wind on adobe building desert midnight, stay with me, in my blood, protecting by the membrane of my veins and my esperanza, holding you forever and ever, on our new soft terrain, I was accustomed to a usual dissatisfaction so it’s difficult to know how to handle you, your teeth glistening like snow under streetlamp night, New York but latin, cobblestone dust washed into relentless tango rain, streaming at the curbs like garbage rivers racing to escape but drying before reaching the city’s edge, whirlwind life, remembered in fragments of his coffee eyes, dorado ears, corner of devilish smile,  arch of stretched back, existence now tasted in snapshots of flavor like memory dejavu reenacted in my present bones,

love, love, pushing me over the city’s shore like toes on balcony tile cold as cement at daybreak heartless as selfish desire and foolish impulsion my soul eternally filled to the brim with carelessness because nothing matters to me but love, and sadness has filled most of my days like darkness fills shadows, which wait to be painted black, as that is their purpose,

I was created melancholy and wistful like willow tree, solitary and yearning

but roots are city glass and stone mud streets and cumbia windows, plátano crates, long strides into freezing bridge night;

don’t let me go, gray sweater and flourescent bus dream, love known in flashes like polaroid unregrettable futureless time–

Heart Don’t Die

neon glowing white

hot flame blank screen

pages of you to write

but I only wish to

sleep for milleniums

until I find love in the concaves

of my dreams.

aunts, neighbors, collegues

open their mouths and have an opinion

no one asks what makes me happy

only wonder in silence if I’ll ever make money.

they care profoundly

about the wrong parts of my future.

are too burrowed in their own sorrows

to manage any optimistic words.

this is the moment

when everyone demonstrates

how little

they’ve ever known me.

sitting on piles of Hard Work and Dedication

[busywork, wasted time, and bullshit

nothing is meaningful under the sun

I could only be dedicated to something I love]

vaguely, distantly proud

because I was on the path they took

that led them to such

bliss-inspiring stability.

I don’t want my heart to die

as I grow older

I want to forget routine

and bullshit.

I only want to bleed

and see the cities

breathe their smoke

cough while laughing

kiss strawberrily and sleep in a haze

film foreign obscure dark themes

and forget the American dream.

Sol del Barrio / Barrio Sun

I did this assignment before but now I feel like delving deeper…

Toes over cobblestone,

tumbleweed, cracks in pavement

train station

blues.

echoes of a suitcase

rolling down a quiet road

one girl

miles away from home.

restless wind

stirs in the corners

of the barrio

as faces watch

from porches of cumbia

and sweat.

soccer and dust

creaking railway

dusk and waiting

for a bus full of silent lips.

fear sits like food

in every stomach

filling us up to the brim

with love for the seconds

we spend breathing quietly

in summer tranquility

near and far from where we’ve come,

chokingly saying nothing

and softly knowing everything

under Buenos Aires sun…

hope on the road

sitting on her couch, watching movies on my laptop

Energy drink, styrofoam pasta bowl on the table

only the kitchen light on,

wish I had a place of my own.

she makes a cake in the LA night

talking in her apartment under yellow light

I’m still on the road

and I’ve been living off of hope.

between my dreams of Chile and Argentina,

my heartland mountains calling to me,

and my chicana mornings of platanos and crema,

it’ll be forever difficult to choose.

I miss his arms and my city’s soul

but I will long for the nights here,

I am sure I will need

my city of angels once more.

I am sticky with fever and

dizzy with dreams;

missing her

humid nostalgic memories…