#peru
There once was from Lima a llama
Created by Pachayomama:
She placed him brand new
On the plains of Peru
Dormido y en su pijama.
There once was from Lima a llama
Created by Pachayomama:
She crafted each hair
With an abundance of care,
And made him a sweet lama glama.
Mar 10, 2025
Mar 10, 2025 at 10:35 PM UTC
¿No sientes por dentro el peso del vacío?
¿No sientes las espadas que atraviesan tu carne ?
¿No es cada vez más de noche ?
¿No hace cada vez más frío?
Es momento de cuestionar si la felicidad es más profunda,
o si, tal vez, hoy solo contamos con más calmantes,
más drogas, más distracciones
que nos ciegan ante la cruda realidad.
Hay que preguntarse si la felicidad es más profunda o es solo que hoy tenemos más calmantes,
mas drogas,mas distracciones
que nos ciegan ante la realidad .
Habría que preguntarse si, al declarar que el dolor y la muerte no existen,
no será que simplemente los vemos menos ,
porque los hemos arrinconado
en hospitales, cárceles, suburbios,
en esos terceros mundos de los que oímos, pero nunca vemos.
.
No enmascares el dolor del mundo
No ocultes este valle de lágrimas
No ignores el podrido océano del mal moral ,
La carne limpia de los fariseos no ocultan el putrefacto hedor de la falsa ética
Si Dios nos abriera los ojos al mundo invisible,
al mundo que nos negamos a ver,
caeríamos muertos,
pues es repugnante lo abominable que puede llegar a ser el ser humano,
el egoísmo , la hipocresía, mediocridad, violencia , angustia, dolor y sufrimiento.
No, no estás vacío; estás lleno de parásitos.
No, no sientes esa espada,
porque eres tú quien la clava.
No, no ves la noche,
porque te niegas a mirar.
Pero sí, puedes sentir ese frío,
porque en verdad, estás muerto , devorado por los parásitos
Oct 17, 2024
Oct 17, 2024 at 11:54 AM UTC
Alstroemeria, Southern-rooted watcher of the skies,
Angel tongues of Peru, with your virgin-blushed annunciation
Or Incan-hued sacrificial fire.
So much like the moon tongues of all rivers in first frost or first harvest.
Like first love, first death is the truest form,
And blooms in scorn of all its many-mirrored rivers to come.
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 12:47 PM UTC
the lost city of the Incas,
survives and breathes
with this cataclysmic vegetation
still malignant and undying
to conjure divinity
for those lack,
in the purest form,
it awed Neruda and Che
with the shimmer of the first light,
the smell is a poisonous offering,
the view is like an unforgotten love,
most of the nights in my sleep
I come back from there
and some of the nights
I wish I could never.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 6:24 AM UTC
Lima has my heart
I was loved by these children
Until it hurt me
I don't speak Spanish
Yet they laughed and played with me
They called me their friend
Playground encounter
I thought I'd never see them
But the Lord provides
The hardest goodbye
Was to the mob of children
Kissing me farewell
Why do you love me?
We can't talk, I won't be back
Why are you so pure?
I will miss you all
Each of you has touched my heart
More than you can know
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 4:55 AM UTC
He used to fly around me
but he should've known
it is the kingdom of my fears
even the birds get lost in here
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
you,
two,
had no clue,
what new blue shoes,
and going to zoo,
could do for you,
Drew,
to Rue,
on Cue,
had their eyes glued,
and new true,
that very few,
due,
Drew,
with Rue,
flew,
to Peru,
And lost their new,
Blue shoes,
But gained a new
Blue hue,
Drew,
and Rue,
got married in Peru,
Under their New,
Blue,
Hue,
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 4:13 PM UTC
—for Mariel
She sells 2 sole paltas beside street
vendors who whistle at crop-top-clad girls,
spewing profanities complete
with broken English. She has four girls
hungry at home. They dream of science, stars,
constellations that spiral and sparr
with particles that make us what we are —
interrupted by howling dogs, the 5
AM tamale man, and stray **** crows.
Amid dust-clouds of Zona D, the sun arrives
over the peak Luis claims once exposed
his innocent eyes to an angel: one
tale of faith raised on culture come undone
presently. Poet Andrea Gibson
writes, “I said to the sun, ‘Tell me about
the Big Bang.’ And the sun said, ‘it hurts to
become.’” At dusk, Mariel takes a Combi out
sixteen stops from Quince, up 302
steps to a turquoise shack and a red rose
garden, and plants avocado seeds at her toes.
Poco a poco, se anda lejos.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
El oro, cuando lo golpea, brilla.
I want to stand at 3,082 meters
On the overlook above Machu Picchu — close
Enough to the edge so my timid toes
Flirt with wild columbine and teeter
On white granite stones laid centuries ago.
Speak to me the way the Andes
Breathe cumulus clouds phthalo blue. Seek
Answers in the form of temples. Slow
Down time in the Room with Three Windows —
Hanan-Pacha: bless my fears with conviction.
Kay-Pacha: reject this earth’s mundane affliction.
Ukju-Pacha: watch my seedling-soul as it grows.
Move with me in cyclical certainty from ruin
To reverence, beyond what words can measure —
Even the old Peruvian proverb for treasure.
Our trials make us mountains among humans.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
Once there was a man in peru
Who dreamt he ate his shoe
Then woke at night
With such a fright
And found out it was true
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
I love the low-hanging clouds over the mouth
Of the Amazon, that whisper to its banks stories
Of the low and high seasons, accompanied
By boat thrums and the kiddish squeals of pink dolphins
Playing in pairs near their wakes.
How the humidity carries a tropical air
Which floats through broad-leafed palms
To your senses as the water laughs in loose rolls –
Unfurling like an easy smile and revealing
Twenty-foot banks that disappear with the rain.
I’m not sure what’s more beautiful –
The entirety of it all or the glasslike meridian beads of water
That run away from the boat, warning dragonflies
And beetles that it doesn’t belong,
While from above a hawk screams to bedside reeds
And with a birdsong choir makes music of wind chimes
With the whistling of grasses and leaning trees,
Begging the mud to hold and refuse to succumb to the glean
Of two-legged greed and caustic tourism that turns
The river into a hungry swell.
A song about life and the nature of things --
Pleading for blind eyes to change what they refuse to see,
To let the jungle alone to wild certainty,
Before humans tried to take what they cannot tame.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
Dominoes
tumble sunk
chests respiring
*Olas.
Olas.
Olas.*
Short boards
spiral; foam
chaoes closing
*Olas.
Olas.
Olas.*
howls
swell purple;
storm out slowly
*Olas.
Olas.
Olas.*
Wet suits
pepper
whitewash winter.
*Olas.
Olas.
Olas.*
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
I arrive in Lima
The sweat-sogged poverty
lumped onto concrete
pushes at my heels
The tight black air
swallows the nakedness
of prostitutes and thieves
Pockets empty like a traveler’s stomach
growling beneath the world of Los Incas
In Cusco
My head throbs in the thin air
with the sound of boys
trying to shine my boots, my sandals
my bare feet
no problemo
women sell fresh papaya and guava
sweaters and trinkets
Hawkers surround me
like a tightly stitched T-shirt
Cusco
The Navel of the Earth
A bulging belly
throbbing
digesting
living
Sunset
I spread my toes
over the evaporated flood waters
of the Rio Urubamba
where it once flowed
from the fingers of Manco Inca
over the fleeing conquistadors
at the top of Ollantaytambo
Momentary brilliance
before you retreated to the jungle
Spain, always gnawing at your heels
It’s a mouth-full-of-coca-leave’s journey
to Macchu Picchu
I enter the dream
spitting wet leaves
on the silence of a dead kingdom
Gasping for air that once filled lungs
of Inca messengers
carrying news of defeat and conquest
over the great Andes
Los Incas Caminos
The cloud-dripped mountains
spread green across my eyes
I see ghosts
a steady move of feet through the depleted air
Porter, takes my backpack
carries it against his brown crusty skin
ancient, sun-baked descendant
of the Earth’s naval
A toothless, painless smile
It must have been different
before we came
with money the color of unpicked rice
Now I hear your belly-groan
Between the perfectly fitted stones
of Sacsayhuaman
My voice bounces circular
off invisible walls
because your magic has survived you
Macchu Picchu
Unknown and majestic
Hidden from blood
from the stink of vultures
No more
Black raven feather
drops on my skull
floats on the shiny gray stone
under my feet
which are wrapped in dried, brown skin
naked, without a heartbeat
It’s past sunrise
the tourist bus has arrived
and the flat shadow of the crowd
blocks the light of the ascending sun
that tries to penetrate
the perfect holes
of a perfect wall
in an imperfect dream
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
He washed his hands in the Caño Cristales.
Five colours of healing bruises put to pasture
Within his purpled veins. There was blood again;
He was now a resident of Earth.
****** hair had grown wildly into a half-beard.
He scratched at it in the Columbian sun,
Sweating in the lack of British rain
And thinking of all the miles he had
Put between the two.
He’d spent all his life combing the mirror.
Combing the mirror and expecting change;
An escape from vanity publishers and
Celebrity snapshots. Combing the mirror,
And so always ending up in the same place.
Searching his memories of Peruvian plains,
There were diagrams set by the former residents.
He took out his folded notebook and started on
The Brand New Testament; before throwing
Its ashes into the liquid rainbow.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC