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…

Off the City Grid

I am off the grid as always

taking time, wandering,

exploring and simply breathing

sometimes crumbling..

under volcanoes and baking chicken,

cold summer kitchen nights,

shoes beer park lights, cement like we’re young,

free world and alone souls in the Santiago dark,

rain lightly falling over the city, foglights green through mist

and we are leaking boats, holding each other

to stay afloat.

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

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.

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–

On the Corner of Misery and Paradise

Of course I miss the beach,

echoed my mind.

I miss the darkness of LA’s night, soulful lost in the rushing roaring rampage of starless black sky who cradles one million faces lit by neon glow like visible loneliness. The beach held my sorrows, her constancy could wash my body in ocean tears, it was only me out there, surfing in her embrace,

in the velvet black water, black air, windswept solitary night where horizon melds with the mountains into which the sea melts,

despite the lonesome hours passed heartaching under blazing rays, nostalgia begins to form a callous over the void and fear that consumed those days and now I see her streets as beautiful, as I never would when my pulsing feet would drag across them waiting for time to accelerate

On the corner of Misery and Paradise, I chose bitterly to cry

eternally waiting at dusk bus stops, alone woman Venice night.

glass stores and garage doors, bringing pizza to soft hands and

warm windows on vacation and pushing on deep into the hours

of night so late they contain every mystery and silence that is held

between our ribs.

our fingertips touching dawn, we would sleep until dusk

so if sun blessed our skin it would feel more like a burn…

I was wrong, the city loved me all along

her time has yet to come,

but her vastness reminds me to be lonely

so I will only pass through

her hills and her valleys…

Ten Minutes

8:09 p.m.  Te alcanzo dentro de paredes lineas de metal ondas de

20:10        Steel, the ocean is an iron fence most nights. Freezing Celcius water on my feverish Farenheart,

8:11 p.m. Nado como un ritmo y te anhelo como rima poética aunque

20:12     You’re in distant cafés or smoking on a Santiago porch in dead night with somber wings painted on your back,

8:13 p.m. Pero decís que no sos un ángel. Sos un espíritu que comparte mis deseos

20:14      Rebel off-the-grid fleeting aquarius love of my life, filled with patience

8:15 p.m. para mí, y asco para la ciudad que te rodea, sabemos que el destino queda en el París latinoamericano,

20:16    You, interlaced with destiny and destination, interlaced with the journey of

8:17 p.m. conocer todo lo que nos espera y llama, la ausencia ya no me duele

20:18      the nostalgia

8:19 p.m.  me quiere, pero también dejamos en el pasado las pieles cambiadas

Alone with the Town

my last friend left to Reno

drove through wildfires with his girl

and I’m alone in town

once I told him to get out

now I’m the only one who still comes round.

nowhere to cruise

in this country night of blue

Wal-mart and traffic lights glow

warm bodies stay inside

and watch the television glow

eating jello

heating water for tea in their midnight micro-

waves, oh

hell, I’m alone

again

on tile cold.

maybe I’ll shoot the bull

with the absent-minded, directionless voices in my head,

or blow my nose,

get the smoke out of my soul.

or play reggae guitar to the light of the moon

on my bed for two

missing you…

Yearning for Big Sur and salt and even Venice Beach,

when I’m really nostalgic,

tacos and lime

even Hawaii

your tongue and lips and throat

pronouncing my name

kissing my breath

on city wind night morning light sky roof

desolation,

that we were,

shouts and ATMs and sleepless Christmas

you were drunk and passionate

I was jaded-

I remember too often,

since life is small here–

but grand and golden in my heart:

its warm nights and my father’s eyes and mother’s arms

hometown heart beating the drum of my soul tune

and I want to cut through every town

and walk on dirty cement

trip on cobblestone

sit on crumbling curb

I love to dig the city, her footprints

her red, yellow, green stars

gas station moons

and diner suns

empty cinemas 1 a.m. drinking coca cola icees

by the light of the marquee

and her violet hair

my velvet and moonshine friends,

all silent now,

in far-off places

leaving me, for a short time,

alone in Desert town,

washed-up

past high school days

lingering

in longing…

Old Poems: Summer Baby

We walked all the way down to Venice

the sun set on our glass liquor heat

our infrared smiles, lost girl mouths

we sat, she smoked, he drove and

we were forever young

every light told me to stay

the paradise air tried to establish me

the city may pulverize my dreams.

I’m a Summer baby,

under a bed I sleep and hear their dreams

and hope mine isn’t a product of loneliness