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.

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Ocean Water

i will keep you warm when cold waters flood the present with the past

I won’t let you freeze from the glaciers of pain I used to cause

but you’ll have to feel for me with all the empathy you can find

abandoned homes under the sea where tsunamis used to strike

don’t let your heart remember, you’re above water now

I didn’t know you, I didn’t mean to sink your trust again

I didn’t know myself, I didn’t mean to sink so low

there’s no oasis in the middle of the sea

no way to make it up to you but spend every day

steering us to shore.

I waited at the water’s edge, dried by the sun

seeing your shape on the horizon I began to focus

my vision and now my eyes only swim with memories

of the future.

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.

I am woman

they will steal money from my pocket,

the jungle will suck my blood,

the world will rob me of chances,

heat may be taken from my bones,

my food may be eaten by those who already eat,

the sun may burn instead of bless me,

the city may stare yet skip over me,

music may taunt instead of calm me,

sex may hunt instead of pleasure me,

yet–

I am woman, 

of which no one can rob me.

Roommate Rant #2 Waking up Blues

I fell asleep at dawn, 7 a.m. pure sunshine 

when I lived alone this wouldn’t be a problem.

I work at night                                  

                                          yelled at by rich, loco, coked out managers

paid under the table, can’t report them or

get a credit card, 

making tips only when I don’t look tired,

when I’m able to hide the pissed-off vibe

from my I-hate-your-bullshit eyes,

wiping the tourists’

tables and telling them, when they ask,

that they can find weed (whispered elegantly over the cash register)

from just about any homeless person in Venice Beach,

during everyone’s 

saccharine sweet summer fun California vacation.

 

and suddenly I’m a mother again,

being woken up at 11:30 a.m. (which is daytime folk’s 3 a.m.)

to ask if I have change for the bus,

or if I could spare my laptop for a few minutes.

I don’t have change,

and my laptop is dead,

and you are 3 years older than me,

yet I am more self-sufficient than you,

and you cannot wake me up just to ask me things like this,

I am not your mother 

but while we’re at it, 

would you please move your piles of clothes

from the middle of our floor to the closet?

and wash your dishes, and pay the rent,

so they stop bugging me to make you pay

just because I’m your friend.

you’re not in Vermont anymore,

nor are you in the Hollywood Dream you thought 

life without a plan would become here in LA.

 

recuerdos perdidos

mucho que hacer. 

vivir esta vida para hacer. 

y que hiciste en final?

besaste los labios de una boca vacía

te encontraste con un alma 

que no sabe soñar.

apenas te acordas de los días antiguos

los fuegos artificiales y vidrios

por las rieles, sabanas en el bosque

un sol que ya no mas brillara en tu vida así.

 

 

 

 

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…

Kerouac dreams

Kerouac dreams

to live on the road,

the road to become home.

people are wine;

souls to be drunk

his eyes are music

blessing my skin.

I’ve learned not how to love,

but what to love:

the rush of wheels,

red kisses,

velvet night,

spinning stars.

I’ve learned emptiness;

cold lovers and lonely ground.

Sometimes my own back turns

on old childish convictions

and I swirl away from the wind,

my soul,

the night.

Anywhere with a view of Buenos Aires…(Con una vista de Buenos Aires)

Un momento más y vuelo–

ya les he despedido a todos–

los recuerdos, los respiros por medianoche

los amores terminados en las veredas y las camas

las escuelas, los caminos, las guitarras en la cochera

y mi mejor amiga.

la deje con lágrimas y la reconocí

por primera vez como la niña de nuestra infancia

–pensé que le había dicho–

si la dejo así paralizada,

como pudiera yo tener la razón?

la juventud no me dio lazos

nomás la lujuria de estar más allá

de este llano.

mi vida es la mujer seducida

por una sed igual que un tornado

pero me voy–

en busca de la pieza

con una vista

de Buenos Aires.