oda

En la soledad nace y muere la esperanza…
Escribo solo lo que se, y lo que se es solo lo que he vivido, y el resto resulta una mentira… Solia dormirse sobre el banco largo, la mujer mas fuerte que he conocido. Encendia los cigarillos uno por uno. Jamas le conte el tiempo que tardabase en fumarlos. Solo Dios sabe en que pensaba; solo El comprende sus sentidos. Seguro lloraba a menudo; yo jamas fui testigo. Eran sus besos sobre la frente como la noche: dulces, humedos, sencillos. Bendecianos al despedirse de nosotros. Sus palabras olian a flor de palma y claveles indios.
Marcabase una cruz con los asperos dedos. No le resplandecia ningun anillo. Su vestido quizas algun dia fue blanco, pero el humo de las noches de trabajo hace mucho lo rindio amarillo.
En los ojos rebosaba la tristeza,
Se mecia lentamente, como un pez en claras aguas. La dulzura de los besos en la frente dejaban rastros de melancolia tejida por la despedida. Contaba las horas en silencio, y en silencio gemia. Para las mujeres fuertes es muy dura la vida.
No la vi morir… Excepto que en mi corazon, en el pesar de un latido, en cierta ausencia de luna nueva que la noticia empozo en mi espiritu. Solo Dios sabe cuanto la amo. Solo Dios.

La ame y aun la amo.

Lo sabe porque me espera,
Sentada sbore la verde banca,
Viejas manos, voz clara, vestido que alguna vez
Supo de blancura, besos en la frente
Con sabor a luna:
Dulces, humedos, sencillos.

There are those who constantly preach the end of the world. What goes on in their mind, who knows. They say the world will end and the end is around the corner. Almost as if they want it to end. It used to be people didn't have to think as much. They worked, they ate, they slept, they went to church. Basically what we do now, except all the other time we have in our hands when we are not working, eating, sleeping, and being at church, or coffee shop, or where ever you get your divine lift from.

Secretly these people want the world to end, because they see themselves on the side of salvation. In their minds, they want to prove that: a. In the words of Gloria Gaynor: "I will survive," or b. They won't actually survive but God has a nice couch right next to his little toe for their souls to sit and rejoice thereafter. Or c. They can just be some damn pessimists.

Then there are those Jim Jones followers who were truly happy when they had to go. Jesus, the spaceships are waiting! Can you imagine?

And perhaps the UFOs were waiting. perhaps death was a black hole that funneled them to some other conscience in the universe.

Nevertheless, I've noticed apocalyptic people also tend to be lonely people. Or people who don't have much choice in the business, anyway. They are those walking suicidals lacking the confidence to get it over with, talking the talk.

Pretty selfish individuals, if you ask me. Find them near a playground, staring at the kids playing in the slides and swings, unaware of the world troubles, thinking, "this flower will shake all you little petals off when it blows..." Sick, lonely selfish bastards, toying around in their minds with the innocents' futures.

I don't doubt the world will end, someday. But it is not up to a book, a guy with a big beard, some half naked individuals wearing face paint, some acidhead, or a school teacher teaching climatology to say. The world will end when it ends, so to say, and whether better off dead or alive, is yet to be seen.

Circular Squares, 1

Suppose oblivion lies on the other side of the boundaries of life. Before and after life. And here I am, imagining oblivion from a non-oblivion state.

If from nothingness we enter into something and exit back into nothingness, would that not imply the existence of an infinite number of somethings -- of lives, of realities?

Things exist only because we, with our consciousness, have the ability to determine their existence and infer their existence prior to our own.

But before I was born -- before each one of us was born -- it appears that nothing existed. So at the moment of death, if it's anything like before our birth, the entire universe will vanish once more into non-existence.

DB Gear

It truly is unfortunate that decent (albeit expensive) products such as those offered by the North Face have been hijacked by douche-bags. Seriously. It's hard for me to believe that these mommy-and-daddy, fraternity-leaning, SUV-driving, backwards baseball cap-wearing, bar-hopping, slut-banging, sorry excuses for male specimens really appreciate the quality of their gear.

No, it's not about that. Did I mention I forgot to include "North Face-wearing" in my long but incomplete list of douche-bag qualifiers?

If

If I had been born with no eyes and no ears... what of the rest of my self? If dreams were reality and reality were dreams, what about hope? If today repeated itself within itself, repeated itself within itself, repeated... If the sky would allow my heart beat to echo off the cliffs of Nepal. If I could, for once, become small, like a child, yet smaller, like an ant, yet smaller, and sink in the black and brown and green and blue eyes of the world, like a virus, and touch the souls of all my hosts. Stick to the souls of all my hosts, and think what they think when they think of the world. If I could be small and a grain of sand among grains of sand in the sands of the universe, I would be happy in the wind. If there were no despair, would there be need for hope? If sugar suddenly became bitter in my mouth, then would I still appreciate those kisses? I, fiction.

Nothingman nowhere man.

nowhere man, moving here and there, disappearing act constant in your nervous ends. Mystery man, travelling man, like music, passing by, flying here and there, flying by. You belong, you don't belong, you belong, you don't belong, somewhere someone agrees with one, somewhere else someone denies one. Nowhere man, mystery man, travelling man, walking disappearing act, caught in your mind man, lost in your mind man, seeking the truth man, knowing no truth actually is man, tight rope walk half bald facade, big nose, slurred words, slumped in a corner of some dark bar, mystery man, cat like, quiet on the window sill, staring out the corner of the window sill, into the whore leg streets of some nowhere city cracked streeted city, gray skied city, rain.

Don't Let Them Have It!

A giant has no need for a sledgehammer; he can control a horde of dwarfs with a stick or a solid swing of his open palm.

To take down the giant and end its tyrannical rule, the dwarfs are in need of something powerful. Something that could bring the gods themselves to their unscathed knees and cause them to question their own omnipotence.

Short in stature but many in minds, they plan and they scheme...and finally have it.

As the giant's crest breaks the horizon, with sweaty fingers the dwarfs push down on the handle.

A burst of light.

The giant is consumed by the radiance before the dwarfs' eyes.

They dance and sing, bathed by the rapidly expanding ball of light. Light, light, light, ligh, lig, li, l,