June 4, 2016

walter benjamin lived in grunewald
i got there on the s7, by accident
fairytale greens & blinding sunlight
my story isn't history's

dream || june 5th, 2015

a wide street, kind of crowded. waiting outside a small apartment building. i turned for a second and missed his exit. felt it, though. heard the door close, barely. by the time i had noticed, he had already merged with the crowd. i started thinking about the difference between sound and noise. this is sound. this street is sound. the sound of metal and wind and chatter. a small group of guys singing a ska revival song at a dingy second-floor bar right across his apartment. this is so mexican. what does he even think of this? he probably finds it odd, interesting. the sound. the sound of spanish when risqué and happy. it's so different from what he is, lively, nice. i take out the keys, open the apartment door. this is not my apartment. i can't remember whose it is until i walk in and there they are, two old friends embracing each other. we had not talked in a long time, one of those strange silent fallouts that happen when there is too much discomfort to actually make a fuss. they were stunned at the sight of me, but it was good to see them. i wasn't stressed about saying hello, not as they were. they were polite, though. small talk in the kitchen. this apartment is not theirs either. it is of a friend of theirs who is letting this friend of mine whose exit i miss live there (or so i gather). i'm intruding; they're not. we make small talk but we don't really want to talk to each other, so we're polite until the conversation runs out. they lead me through a small door. i cross it. a desert, the mother of all deserts, an open red and purple sky. and nothing, nothing else at all, barren, just a slim dirt path and the immensity of that patchy desert, of that open sky. they're talking about all sorts of things couples talk about. i stay away, let them have their talk. i walk down the dirt path and see a young couple looking on excitedly as their small townhouse is being built, one of those bubbly kids' cars standing off to one side. how can they live here? this is the desert. we've been pushed to live in this land where there is nothing. is it possible to remain human here? how human? what kind? i turn to the other side of the road and am hit with the sight of this huge cactus in the shape of an olive tree growing strong up towards the sky. prickly pears and bright red flowers bursting elegant, magnanimous. relief. i felt sudden relief. and at that moment i understood that yes, it made sense to be there, that being there was possible even if we all looked ridiculous against that crazyendlessbeautiful sky, that cactus tree, the dirt, the heat, that fucking horrible heat. it was a good place to be at. it was a good place to be at, because i was there.

November 17, 2015

                                                                       para xagu.

tuya es la soledad de orilla gris, 
de puente, de mar, 
de ciudad nueva y chamarra gruesa para el mucho frío 
de los casi amaneceres sin saber qué hacer

la mía sigue siendo el diario correr,
la mentira entre las ruedas,
el obligado tropiezo, codazo en la garganta, 
todas mis lágrimas un pasado que no tiene a dónde ir

no hay canción suficiente
ni dinero suficiente
ni rumbo, ni futuro suficientes
como para mordisquearte la oreja
y reír muy quedito
que todo estará bien

te pienso a estas horas en las que suelo recordar
lo que fue tener respuestas para alguien, 
cuando mis labios sabían a ellos
y toda yo era verdad, 
recuerdo sus intentos por rescatar
algún camino para mí,
para que no me perdiese
tan duro, tan siempre
tan jodidamente de repente

y no hice caso, como tú
y no hago caso, como tú

y ahora que nadie nos llama, 
la tierra nos hunde de vacío los ojos y se
derrumba entierro en nuestro pecho

pocas cosas cambian cuando se permanece piedra,
pálido fuego entre las manos,
pequeño remolino de valentía vencida,
de miedo, y de ahora sí amor

y mientras nuestra tristeza arrulla a sus accidentes,
a todas sus costumbres de pesadilla, 
mi cansancio,
pulso muerto de todos mis momentos sin escribir, 
trata de imaginarte
respirando alguna promesa de paisaje y mañana, 
alguna nube o libertad 
que no duela tanto
como la que aún cargamos en la mirada,
en este perpetuo ir y venir de querernos lejos
de tanto pinche absurdo.

July 15, 2015

my fingers taste like metal. a doorknob. the mere sight of endless railings. the subway.

my aunt's eyes, little and sweet, like my grandmother's.
she looks up at what the nurses are doing, stares at the patients.
she turns to me and says something intelligible,
but then she says it a second time, a third, a fourth, and my heart breaks.
her mind is wandering off to all the past she had always felt so much nostalgia for, 
jumbled up now, a strange mosaic.
but sometimes she's focused and hears the screaming from another patient in another room;
she mimicks the wailing and let's out a cackle.
and that's when i know she's not off somewhere, she's there, with me, her usual humor wide open, so crass and wicked.
i slap her on the head with a plastic folder and whisper to her to shut up.
she looks up at me. we both roll our eyes and giggle.

my coughing today had the texture of keys. i felt my throat rough, as if my entire insides wanted to slice their way out.

i saw my aunt yesterday, from afar. i wasn't allowed in to visit her. some procedure shit.
i waved to her from just inside the door before being asked by a nurse's broad back to please kindly get the fuck out. 
my aunt looked up, her cute beady eyes lighting up her whole face. an instant smile. 
two instant smiles.
she can still recognize me.

violent rain. it pierces the air and everything moves against its will.
everyone runs for cover. i clasp onto my umbrella and stay still.
the sky is made of steel. 
a man is trying to sell his cellphone. his wife has just died. he's crying.
i feel everything gray against my tongue.
the sky slips slowly down my throat.
it is a gun. the sky is a gun.
there's nothing to do.

today i go inside the hospital room. the lights are out. every patient is sleeping, including my aunt. i look down at her, at her heavy breathing. she's sleeping. sleeping, like when we shared our bed during late afternoon naps, or when i would come back from someplace and find her on the couch waiting for me between snore and slumber. she's sleeping, and i bend down to kiss her forehead, her cheek, my fingers caressing her bright motherly skin. she stirs a little but keeps sleeping, keeps dreaming. i leave the room, happy that she looks so placid, so at peace in deep sleep, sleeping, like i remember her sleeping. i smile. i don't want to say goodbye. i quicken my pace into a run. i wish she could just keep sleeping on like that. i wish we didn't have to say goodbye.
a window stare. his coffee cup sighs. it sits and waits. i sip, outside.

June 20, 2015


my ideas are short, and still i keep running out of paper.


a love letter is something devised for one's own pleasure. an apology note reads the same, only with tears. lists as reminders. instant messages an opportunity for pain or amusement. e-mails never know if they're getting close enough, and that ground-breaking paper no one is waiting for will never be written in this lifetime, by this hand.


i imagine that i write to you, from border to border of a page, the luxury of time and sentiment at ease upon my lap. and yet, i do not know what i am writing, but whenever i press that last button in this less than starry-eyed daze of a world, i know that whatever i have written, it is never really for you.

May 13, 2015

firefly summer
gap-toothed &
ice-cream sandwiches
& a happy scar
someone's childhood
i don't remember being 10
she folds the paper
   once     twice
as many times as
raindrops soften
the earth outside
this place of  overlaps
& silence
              a fish
in the end

April 29, 2015

la manzana sobre la mesa no dice nada
se come sola mientras me ve pasar
buscando calor en la mirada apagada
de todo aquello que me saborea triste