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…

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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…

Silueta

Vivo como una sombra.

no verás mis ojos

no me sentirás

soy liquido como un color

sin palabras como la respiración

sólo ves una silueta

bajo luz como si fuéramos

ángeles lejanos

lejos de nuestras viejas ciudades,

usadas para absorber

nuestras lagrimas

que no encuentran donde caer

que desean el caos

de la cambia constante

que es la vida de una fantasma.

Me verás como silueta lamentable:

callada como la briza

que te toca como terciopelo azul

pero nunca te dice

una palabra que entiendes.

Esperarás que comparta contigo

un pedazo de mi alma

una sola palabra

del centro de mi ser

pero lamento que no puedo.

Mi piel es de piedra.

bajo el superficie de risa elegante

voz baja y manos inmóviles,

mi alma ardiente te desea

y cree que me dejarás

al final,

porque yo te quiero

demasiado.

In Times of Cholera (English Version)

Originally written by me in Spanish. Read the Spanish version here.

In times of absence

what does the heart do?

She sleeps,

she lets the eyes divert their course.

She dreams of nostalgic times.

Sentiment is half of love,

conviction is the other.

You have my heart;

make yourself responsible:

He who loves

has the responsibility

to care.

and she who needs

has the responsibility

to wait.

In times of aging,

one must not abandon

conviction.

Love in times of cholera;

through the hours that we forget each other,

between the seconds when you seem absent,

love is the internal promise

to continue on.

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…

Fragments

The way his eyelids fold above his eyes when he glances upwards.

A radio station I’d only heard online, blasting in a clothing shop

where I traded $20 for 200 pesos.

The first taste of cold Fernet and coke, with ice.

Standing to wait in the street, instead of the sidewalk.

Hearing “feliz navidad” as I buy 2 liters of water for a sweltering day.

Walking on the handprint of Maradona, as though I were in a Hollywood

one million times more personally meaningful.

Every shower freezing, like a baptism each time.

Crepes of caramel and the blackest beer in the house,

lying sick in my bunk, next to a future lifelong friend

who offered me a walk on the beach,

but I was leaving that day.

last night, ultimately alone, Mendoza,

empanadas, spaghetti, too much, never enough

of that restaurant with the flag in the window.

the chico in the plaza playing mad guitar with his

girlfriend watching proudly on the bricks.

no shame anywhere, and personal sadness

only under a thick layer of empathetical radiance.

our last moments in each other’s presence,

spent in pointed silence.

regret for not loving you sooner,

passionate nerves vibrating for the future.

My small green silk journal from abuela.

the chair he pulled out for me

salsa I pretended to dance,

wondering if he was intentionally edging

so close to my mouth.

the City at dawn, garage doors over each shop,

-except the Farmacia-

the cigarette between his lips,

no fingers used to keep in place,

instead interlaced with mine,

despite my numb.

Chinese food and flan,

dinner on the hostel’s bench by his side,

why didn’t I kiss him in the shower

upstairs, while everyone ate?

the hostel worker who “waved good-bye”

to his return plane to Mexico, D.F.

the New York man, searching for his “latin lover”

no Spanish in his yankee vocabulary,

curing a hangover with a mar-gar-it-ah,

memorable.

the taxi driver who took me to my return airport,

promised me “nada es imposible”.

demasiados adioses.

the stars of Santiago city lights shimmering

along with my tears, crying together in solemnity

as Soda Stereo filled my ears,

knowing I had not meant to leave.

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