#borges
"Sometimes I look up at the stars at night
And say,
Take me somewhere else, somewhere so far away I don't even remember this place
And let me look upon the face of the whole entire human Race
And find contentment in the insignificant things
Like a little Childs Laugh
Or tripping on the Trail Path
Before Steadying Myself With A Staff
And Thinking I Could've Fallen
But Didn't
And Then Think Back To The Time I Did
And Think Back To The Time We Played In The Spring Water
And Dried Off Inside
And Lived To Have Fun
Until the Fun Was Love
Because Of Age Approaching
And The Love Turned Sour
Obsessive and Reproaching
But I Still Loved You
As A Child
But Now I Am A Man
And Your Likely With Children
And I Have Been Seared By The Sting Of Silence
That Finds Solace In the Old Memories
And Wishes To Go Back To Them
Until The Thought That Things Could Be Better Now
If I Want Them To Be
I Could Have My Own
Slice Of Heaven
My Only Fear
Is
It Wouldn't Be The Same
And My Mind Might Convince Me It's Cheating To Let Go
Until I Find Joy In New Beginnings
Like the First Day Of School
Which Can Be Every Day
If We Let It Exist
And Resonate In It
And Realize We're All In the Same Boat
And Eat My Breakfast With A Smile On My Face
And Think Back to Playing Soccer On The Beach
Or Something Kind I Did A long Time Ago
That I Had Forgotten
And Giving You a Hug.
And Sleep
And In Dreams Return to the Stars, that Blind me
And I Wake up
In This Place, I Never Want To Leave
Until I realize,
The Real Game is Real Life
And The Strife And The Failures and The Mistakes Make The Rewards So Fitting
And I Take A Sip Of Tea
And Pretend I'm Jorge Luis Borges
Or Einstein, Or some Genius
And Then Remember, I'm Just Human
But I Can Create Wonderful Things
And My Greatest Strength
Is What The Next Day Brings...
A Memory from the Future
Watermarked In Time
May 24
May 24, 2026 at 6:05 PM UTC
Alluring sequence of violence.
Tracing humanity back to the blade
As shadow fell on wounded souls:
Bullets under quarter moons softened
The hardest hearts,
A formless perfect death shapes
Out lives from obsidian.
Gangland offers no purpose,
No meaningful demise for Mother.
A ****** so pointless for an
Incorruptable treasure and
Stolen children dove deep inside
Themselves guarded by great walls
Of blissful repression.
She died and I saw a talon of a moon.
Nothing remains.
She haunts me even now that I am
Older than she was,
I relive her death unyielding in details.
And the trigger pulled is a face I will
Never know,
Blind retribution ending five more
Lives.
What laws govern the universe
And the mini cosmos inside me
As I navigated the violent song
That only a Maternal weight can
Bear down on every syllable
That sorrows these words?
Such darkness written in light,
Forging it's ways into every line,
Sturdy pain that is strong in
The brokenness.
Indecipherable and lovely
Was the Talon that night,
Deep into my poetry,
A delicacy of the inner man
Finding himself in a memory
So deep and dreadfully remembered,
A bullet for my Mother and a Poet
Was born.....
I am Ded inside.
May 23
May 23, 2026 at 9:05 PM UTC
_In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:_
I
They're handing out maroon balloons
And saying they are free
But grasping children grip them fast
And the monks amidst them disagree
Dispassionately, but en masse
While they liberate the children
With obliterating oms.
A nearby Byron expiates
And mildly reiterates
The soporific broken ode
He bellows over holy oms
To the smitten women who approach
That "a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose"
Dispensing with disinterest
Crimson bliss amidst the women
Who ignore the sinful image he bestows.
He hands them out like red balloons
To grasping girls all afternoon
Imploring them to trust their nose
Insisting they are free
And so continues to propose
To the smitten women in the street
That "a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose"
As if the word could smell as sweet
As the perennials he grows.
And in the corner – Romeo
Who greenly mourning understands
The worth of poison in his hands
Imagining a life of night
Where roses wither without light
And only stars through windows break
Through all the countless nights of fate
and every breath's an endless wake...
Meanwhile Byron's distant yells
Prevail over the choral swell
And plant a seed in grasping ears:
Salvation can be engineered!
Which Romeo soon understands
As kissing death, he takes her hand
Thoughts germinating into schemes
If a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
...then a dream is a dream is a dream.
II
A griffin, a hippogriff, and a wyvern
Admitting me and
Gripping crimson
Dripping strings
So none of them will fly away.
Inside, Cain is killing Abel
_(How few! yet how they creep)_
killing Abel
_(Through my fingers to the deep)_
killing Abel
_(While I weep — while I weep!)_
killing Abel.
_(O God! Can I not grasp)_
It is the first story:
_(Them with a tighter clasp?)_
A samsara of carnage and drama.
Somewhere above
On a city street
Desire's handing out balloons
He clips their thorns
And trims them neat
He says they're free
And just as sweet
As the women he impugnes
He belies his guidance on repeat:
That love is the light is the sun is the moon.
A widower laments and moves the world
That has such people in it:
A snake, a guard, a god, a dog
A wife by no other name
A faltering of faith, a peek
A pillar of salt, a severed head
Adrift on a river
Singing:
_I'd transcend five hundred miles
And I'd transcend five hundred more
Just to be the man who transcends trials
Sprawled out on your floor_
(Thy drugs are quick.)
_Searching for a souvenir
To prove to you our world was here_
Isaac, bound, blank and free
Bleating, looking for meaning
_(All that we see or seem)_
In his father's violent eye,
And finding it.
_(Thus with a kiss I die.)_
Abraham swings his knife.
A son is a sin is a ram is a rose.
A man pushes the sun up a large hill
(_LET THERE BE LIGHT_)
Every day, and then it rolls down again
And then an eagle eats his liver.
_(I am the resurrection and the life.)_
One must imagine Prometheus happy
The alternative is dark
The moon, by any other name, would—
But do not swear by the moon!
For she changes constantly
_(Then said Jesus unto them plainly:
Lazarus is dead.)_
Everything changes
But nothing is truly lost.
(_at times
the fact of her absence
will hit you like a blow to the chest
and you will weep.
but this will happen less and less
as time goes on.
she is dead.
you are alive.
so live._)
A man pushes the sun up a large hill
A day is a year is a life is a death.
One must imagine Orpheus happy.
III
In dreams, the sun resumes her loving glow
I'm reunited with my silhouette
I glue myself with soap to my shadow
And find myself beside my Juliet
No longer a balloon without a hand
I'm rooted to the earth where she grips me
With purpose guiding us through life's demands
I push my boulders uphill happily
I build a world with Juliet my wife
Where roses are all roses and smell sweet
We live a loving happy magic life
Together til our journey is complete.
[_Enter, at the other end of the churchyard,
FRIAR LAURENCE, with a lantern, crow, and *****
In union Eve and Adam are redeemed,
Not in a rose but in a living dream.
Apr 2, 2023
Apr 2, 2023 at 5:21 PM UTC
“There’s not even room enough to be anywhere
Its not dark yet, but it’s getting there”. – Bob Dylan
.
A pair of die is tossed across a plywood-table.
It’s oak-veneer of creamy grain glisters with light
Which falls crummy, like dandruff from naked bulbs
That are illumined by a hand that screws;
There is no switch.
The flick of that wrist charms those die into snake eyes.
And so, the two-fold trick erupts our opposites on top
Of the laminated universe. The stones have settled.
You can smell the ignited, paper wick
Of a well-packed cigarette
But none of the sweet leaf which follows.
The virtue of our space is that
The substance is snuffed out.
No more panache with death-
Wish; just sadness fumbling with toilet
Paper, because tissues got expensive.
Pretty quick the crown of that nose chafes
Against the single-ply and specks of skin
Suspend themselves in oddly solar
Bathroom light. But the cells reform so quick;
The cartilage is solid like the trunks of effusive,
Sappy trees that create a sympathetic prison.
Soon, apathetic winter comes to ****
The ornaments obscuring
A depthless forest.
So stripped of foliage, an ascetic, wintry oak
Must look inside itself.
The anatomy of tree
As annulated grain,
Is kept concealed; flat circles. marking. years.
It sees Prospero’s Ariel and Carlotta’s Madeleine.
They’re gagged, trapped in the trunk
And point outside the Vertigo of time –
Inside the television – to “total flow” –
(Where Scottie drools catatonically)
To spotless light, in evergreen rooms
That are built of such better pulp.
..
Conspicuous are characters around here.
It seems that silver dollars stack ten to a word
Of which so many do plague these matted
And miserly phrases.
Intelligent, it isn’t. Green looks blue;
Intelligence is stupid. It does not sound
Like anything and means much less.
No, they’re hopeful to be musical or
Umbilical; like, connected to the harmonic
Mother who’s just now gestating an utterance
For life or death. Whichever side
Of the soil you prefer.
Most folks used to hedge their bets on both
But eternity is out, the moment is in.
Like Jesus Christ it’s difficult to stay
With the latest
Transcendental style.
Friction atomizes faith’s tension ‘till
Belief systems are burned out.
The Library of Babel is in flames.
The ash falls and frosts the boughs
Of culture’s mangey oak.
That tree, was just struck by the zeitgeist’s lightning.
And furiously, so furiously our year’s snow is falling,
On all the breathing; all the sleeping,
Whom sawing logs are situated in the worst, possible
S(lumber).
…
I saw dust, and it looked like me.
I am the 3rd Adam.
I am a-bomb.
And I will deliver us.
Sawdust
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 3:21 PM UTC
The robed and turbaned guides lead us
Station to pillar to post
Here the last puddle of sacred blood outlined in platinum,
There the stray knotted whipstroke picked out on the
Mudstone wall in jasper and rarest peridotites
- Change yer shoes for the final hill to the death sanctum,
Last sonatina set to begin, with eye max.
But, but here monsignor, what’s this minor
Scatter of comic beaks ‘n bones off to the side in shadow,
This fouled corner irrigated by ninety-nine generations of
Three faiths and their pets?
- Pay no ear, it’s got no voice or at most
The scalded steamkettle hiss of a dying gull,
Was never no human language
Nor saw anything really seen
And those what claim to have dug up gored pieces of value
From under there just kissed the *** of madness.
Mar 8, 2020
Mar 8, 2020 at 9:12 PM UTC
Wandering the well-worn grooves,
Listening to the echoes
of my possible futures and pasts,
En el jardin de senderos que se bifurcan
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 7:09 AM UTC
With the sun settling down,
The huge candor of the dusk settles
In on its spectral enchantments
And its usual "Only God could have done this",
Portico: Where the day is meditated
And the sigh of humbled gratitude sets in,
As the stars form
Across the eyes and her hand
In your own,
It is simply good to have a moment
Between the day,the sky,
and everything in between.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 10:51 PM UTC
"In vain have oceans been squandered on you, in vain
the sun, wonderfully seen through Whitman’s eyes.
You have used up the years and they have used up you,
and still, and still, you have not written the poem."
- Jorge Luis Borges
I did. All forty-five of it, with one person sneaking in between every line like waves persistently knocking on shores.
These poems will never meet the eyes of the one who guided my hands; the one who sung the melody to which my words danced.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 9:27 AM UTC
"The other one, the one they call [Sophie], is the one things happen to."
Slurring steps like words, not even drunk, yet
still seeing clearly the blurred letters you sent.
*I let her cry, although I never understood
how the salty spate should heal a temporary break.*
Blowing up small things to make them big is, what?
we were taught, more than being warned on how they will pop.
*I can clearly see through the glass bones and paper
skin, sitting and tightening her ribs, enjoying the plague.*
Spilling speech, strictly to rid myself
of your poisonous finger-tipped bones.
*I let the break hurt more, swinging mischievously, pulling off the band-
aid slower to compose the tones for her to express.*
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC
You Learn
After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn…
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure…
That you really are strong
And you really do have worth…
And you learn and learn…
With every good-bye you learn.
JLB
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
TWO ENGLISH POEMS For A Woman
I.
The useless dawn finds me in a deserted streetcorner; I have outlived the night.
Nights are proud waves: darkblue topheavy waves laden with all hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable.
Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals, of things half given away, half withheld, of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act that way, I tell you.
The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd ends: some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams, and the smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart has no use for.
The big wave brought you.
Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words.
The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city.
Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name, the lilt of your laughter: these are the illustrious toys you have left me.
I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and to the few stray stars of the dawn.
Your dark rich life…
I must get at you, somehow: I put away those illustrious toys you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile –that lonely, mocking smile your mirror knows.
II.
What can I hold you with?
I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the ragged suburbs.
I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon.
I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghost that living men have honoured in marble: my father’s father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather –just twentyfour- heading a charge of three hundred men in Perú, now ghosts on vanished horses.
I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness humour my life.
I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.
I offer her that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow – the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born.
I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself.
I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
I dream with my hands
While my tongue fails
And my pillow only gives me sleepdust.
I make dreams without labels or names,
Whose fences have already pervaded reality
And whose power dies again each generation.
I construct bridges between words
With stones that will weather
Even the fickle storms of men.
When mouths change the shape of “pyramid”
My vast triangles will still blot out the sun.
And when new peoples forget my name
The ancient eyes of my statue will still open
So that maybe in a distant moment a scholar will say
“He was once called Ozymandias, King of Kings”
All because I will have dreamt with my hands
Yo sueño con mis manos
Cuando mi lengua falla
Y la almohada me da sólo legañas.
Hago sueños sin etiquetas o nombres,
Cuyas vallas ya han impregnado realidad
Y cuya potencia muere otra vez con cada generación.
Construyo puentes entre palabras
Con piedras que aguantarán
Aun las tormentas volubles del hombre.
Cuando bocas cambian la forma de “pirámide”
Mis vastos triángulos borrarán el sol.
Y cuando pueblos nuevos olvidan mi nombre
Los ojos antiguos de mi estatua se abrirán
Para que quizás en un momento distante un erudito diría
“Una vez, se llamaba Ozymandias, rey de reyes”
Todo porque habré soñado con mis manos.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 6:35 PM UTC
Que era la noche del porvenir girando en pies de terriccola aventurado y un pez naufrago en un universo perdido en los ojos de una mujer, despues de todo la noche se esconde en la boca y el ayer es del entonces y un ciego se rie de chistes de un gato son balance, que era la chistosada de meditar drogado de ***** y los gatos siguen en movimiento y Cortazar ya que es Bolaño y su vientre se come ha estraños? lluvia envez de pelo de color azul marino, Wenennefer y musico llamado Jimmi, sus ojos duelen ver, eran de un time future.
Y la dolienta sangre de sus manos dolian al escribir fortunas.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
Como el ojo que ve la liquidación de un planeta, la mano de un cometa, la generación no perdida, la aritmética y el cálculos, la proporción física y metafísica, la alimentación y lo bohemio, lo dado y lo rechazado, el cazador y su pesca mas grande que el,
Un gesto, una mano mas rápida que la otra. Una visualizadora tranquila y naturalidad, en sostenidad futuras.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
Historia de mujeres en grupo que se matan cargándose de la risa porque saben que hay algo más especial.
Kumiko, era pelirroja ansiana de 76 años con ojos verdes, tenía elegancia al caminar en su casa de madera, y era extraordinaria al hacer te sencha traído de un horizonte. Kumiko tenía nueve hijos, una mama llamada Dera, que tenía 98 años y se relacionaban muy bien, más que amigas. Un día se enamoraron las dos de una niña caminando por el parque las hizo mal pensar que la historia no varía, se entrega y se apasiona. Que sería de la elegancia? Porque se murió la elegancia en los ciencuenta, que le paso a las actrizes cuando los ojos ya no lloran, cuando acaban de matar a los gatos en Haití y los amantes de Cortázar se mueven en su cuento. Si conocéis esa historia eres Sancho y el es más chistoso que el. El hombre de la Triste Figura es serio, como un árbol sin nombre o la Pampa sin lluvia.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
Me han cambiado de afuera el tiempo y su arena, pero adentro my esfera noche sigue llena de estrellas, luzes muertas.
Que alumbran los sueños y ayudan a leer las caricias.
Si pudiera escojer un animal a quien ser, el tigre me viene a la mente con su cuerpo ajedrez, que delizia ser parte del mar un delfín que salta y esconde una sonrisa en la sal.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 8:05 AM UTC
I can play cards.
La sexualidad sera discutida por las mentes mas brillantes del mundo haber que hacen…
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC