Dreamscape

I am going to die on the Diagonal Highway.
I know this because I already have the memory
of crumpled metal and shattered glass
scattered across my broken lap.
The wheels are still spinning in the air,
still trying to get somewhere.

You will recognize the car immediately,
but not me, I am already gone.

I know this because, lately, I cannot wake,
and I cannot fall asleep.
My dreams follow me throughout the day,
and then my friends settle into bed with me
to chat until the coffee pot turns on.

In this mist between my eyes and you,
There are tall gray fortresses and insane asylums,
and the faces staring out of the windows
just want to go home.
Alf is standing in the corner smiling at me,
he turns around and comes back
as a naked, tattooed girl
playing the violin and singing sweetly.

On the other side a red stream flows,
from my heart to yours, to theirs,
to water the lawns of the politicians and military generals.
A lily blooms on the playground, but I can't see,
I am sleeping with Vendetta
in a hotel room by the railroad tracks.
He holds a knife to my throat, but I just laugh
as it turns to a leaf and I blow it away.

Now I lie safely beside you,
hold me tight and don't be afraid.
We've got some time left, until I go away,
But I already know when that day will come,
the day when I die on the Diagonal Highway.

Mural de Hidalgo

Jose Orozco

La Nueva Democracia (1945)
David Alfaro Siqueiros

Bliss

is watching a dozen middle-aged, overweight, white guys play half-court basketball on a Sunday morning while screaming at yourself (this does not hurt, this does not hurt, this does not fucking hurt!) and letting everything else slowly drip out of your body and onto the sticky plastic cushion until you can (finally) laugh at yourself again.

Crack in the Window

taken from here

Buddy

"He said that a man should be able to lie at the bottom of a hill with his throat cut, slowly bleeding to death, and if a pretty girl or an old woman should pass by with a beautiful jug balanced perfectly on the top of her head, he should be able to raise himself up on one arm and see the jug safely over the top of the hill." He thought this over, then gave a mild snort. "I'd like to see him do it, the bastard." He took a drag on his cigar. "Everybody in this family gets his goddamn religion in a different package," he commented with a notable absence of awe in his tone.

--J.D. Salinger

Walking Around

It happens that I am tired of being a man.
It happens that I go into the tailor shops and the movies
faded, impenetrable, like a felt swan
navigating on a water of origin and ash.

The smell of barbershops makes me sob out loud.
I want nothing but the repose either of stones or of wool,
I don't want to see any more establishments nor gardens,
nor merchandise, nor glasses, nor elevators.

It happens that I am tired of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow,
It happens that I am tired of being a man.

However, it would be delicious
to scare a notary with a cut lily
or kill a nun with one blow to the ear.
It would be beautiful
to go through the streets with a green knife
shouting until I die of cold.

I do not want to go on being a root in the dark,
hesitant, extended, shivering with dreams,
downwards, in the wet innards of the earth,
soaking it up and thinking, eating every day.

I do not want for my many miseries.
I do not want to continue as a root and as a tomb,
as a solitary tunnel, as a cellar full of corpses,
freezing, dying with pain.

That's why Monday burns like oil
at the sight of me arriving with my jail-face,
and it howls in passing like a wounded wheel,
and its footsteps towards nightfall are filled with hot blood.

And it shoves me along to certain corners, to certain damp houses,
to hospitals where the bones come out of the windows,
to certain cobblers' shops smelling of vinegar,
to streets horrific as crevices.

There are birds the color of sulfur, and horrible intestines
hanging from the doors of the houses which I hate,
there are forgotten sets of teeth in a coffee-pot,
there are mirrors
which should have wept with shame and horror,
there are umbrellas all over the place, and poisons, and navels.

I walk with calm, with eyes, with shoes,
with fury, with forgetfulness,
I pass, I cross offices and stores full of orthopedic appliances,
and courtyards hung with clothes on wires,
underpants, towels and shirts which weep
slow dirty tears.

Walking Around

Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sucede que entro en las sastrerías y en los cines
marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro
Navegando en un agua de origen y ceniza.

El olor de las peluquerías me hace llorar a gritos.
Sólo quiero un descanso de piedras o de lana,
sólo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines,
ni mercaderías, ni anteojos, ni ascensores.

Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis uñas
y mi pelo y mi sombra.
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.

Sin embargo sería delicioso
asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado
o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja.
Sería bello
ir por las calles con un cuchillo verde
y dando gritos hasta morir de frío.

No quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas,
vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño,
hacia abajo, en las tapias mojadas de la tierra,
absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día.

No quiero para mí tantas desgracias.
No quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba,
de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos
ateridos, muriéndome de pena.

Por eso el día lunes arde como el petróleo
cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de cárcel,
y aúlla en su transcurso como una rueda herida,
y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche.

Y me empuja a ciertos rincones, a ciertas casas húmedas,
a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana,
a ciertas zapaterías con olor a vinagre,
a calles espantosas como grietas.

Hay pájaros de color de azufre y horribles intestinos
colgando de las puertas de las casas que odio,
hay dentaduras olvidadas en una cafetera,
hay espejos
que debieran haber llorado de vergüenza y espanto,
hay paraguas en todas partes, y venenos, y ombligos.

Yo paseo con calma, con ojos, con zapatos,
con furia, con olvido,
paso, cruzo oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia,
y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre:
calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran
lentas lágrimas sucias.

Pablo Neruda

We Know About Time

The fish, the fox, the bees, the stream,
Return, return, return, return.
The birds, the fruit, the weeds, the leaves,
Return, return, return, return.
The flow, the tide, you and I,
Return, return, return.

Why Did I Skip That Part?

Low

Dusk is dawn is day
Where did it go?
I’ve been laughing
Fast and slow
Moving in a still frame
Howling at the moon
Morning found me laughing
Up and down, down
Low low low
Night suits me fine
And morning suits me fine
I’ve been so happy
Way up high, high
In between
Down below
Low low low

I skipped the part about love
It seems so silly and low
Low low low
Low low low

I said the morning
It isn’t your time
Barefoot naked
I can see your lines
It doesn’t bother me
That you are right
Your grass is grassy wet
Your light white is bright
Light white light

I skipped the part about love
It seems so shallow and low
Low low low
Low low low

You and me
We know about time
We know how things go
They come and go
They live and grow
They pass and go
And glow and glow
Up and down
High and low
Low low low
Low low low

I skipped the part about love
It seems so silly and low
I skipped the part about love
It seems so shallow and low
Low low low
Low low low

I like your hands
All full of glory
All full of glory

(R.E.M)

And the red wine flows like red blood like Red #40, through the drains in the cement floor and into my head.

Out damned spot!

Ashes, ashes they all fall.

Strange

So I am sitting here eating pistachio-marshmallow pudding and drinking red wine. And I think to myself, this sure is strange. Life sure is strange. I ask the cat what he thinks about this and he says that back when he lived with the queen of England, they used to sip red wine and eat green pudding after a hard day of ruling the country. He says it's not strange at all. He also says that he did not expect to end up here in Longface after living with the Queen, but he kind of likes it. He says that all those diplomatic issues were giving him ulcers.

Today I attached Pikachu to the handlebars of my motorcycle. I think he'll learn to like his new home. It's probably not what he expected to happen to him after he got out of that little bubble-toy machine, but I think he'll be a better Pokemon because of it.

And then we're back to me, with my dirty spoon and wine glass. In all of my plans for myself, I never imagined having discussions with cats, or riding motorcycles with cartoon characters, or many other things that I find myself doing almost daily. And sometimes it is hard to talk to my other friends who don't know how to relate to these sorts of things. They are living the life that I thought I would be; applying to Ivy League grad schools and working on important internships. It is hard not to get jealous when they talk about these things. But what is it all worth, I wonder, if they don't know how to talk with cats?