"dorado" poems
on tall trees (en arboles altos)
they begin as small white flowers (empiezan como flores pequeñas y blancas)
with five petals (con cinco petalos)
and a sweet smell (y un olor dulce)
ready in summer (estan listos en el verano)
smooth skin (piel suave)
colorful skin (piel lleno de color)
red, orange, yellow, green (rojo, anaranjado, amarillo, verde)
single pit in the middle (una semilla en el medio)
sweet flavor (sabor dulce)
soft or firm (blando o firme)
the knife breaks the thin surface (el cuchillo rompe la superficie delgada)
and reveals a golden sun (y revela un sol dorado)
a sun (un sol)
bright (brillante)
shining (radiante)
and glorious (y glorioso)
i like mangos (me gusta mangos)
mango juice (jugo de mango)
mango smoothies (batidos de mangos)
mango ice cream (helado de mango)
i have a candle (tengo un cirio)
that smells like (que huele como)
mangos (mangos)
it’s one of my favorite smells (es uno de mis olores favoritos)
in the entire world (en todo el mundo)
when i think of (cuando yo pienso en)
mangos (mangos)
i think of (yo pienso en)
summer (el verano)
my happy place (mi lugar feliz)
my paradise (mi paraiso)
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
I have a blue blanket, it looks corduroy but it's synthetic polynesian cotton.
Considered by some to be polyester. After the ninth year of ownership I started
Telling house guests it had always been mine; but secretly knowing it came from my
Ex Kristina who left it with some of her other things in 2005 in my grand deluxe Evanston
Apartment. In like some really awesome way, I could fold the corners together to see little blocks
Of the Universe form cubes in the fourth dimension and gain a better understanding of my own
Little black shmata. Top drawer, white dresser, in the back with the leftover girlfriend underwear between
My first ever stuffed animal dog/rabbit.
Amazing how these thinned and frayed azure threads had held so many midnight conversations Together- maybe fifteen other girls had nuzzled with Kristina's blanket. Last year the guilt set in. You Watch a girlfriend, say, ratchet through your room naked for something soft to put over her to listen to
Some half-stanza from the new Yeats critical and that, do-I-tell-her feeling comes over you. Blue Polyester really had a way with women. My last serious crush, the one of six months, the one from the place that was close to where I worked six days a week, would you believe, she had not interest in that heap of thread, under my pillows spying on us sleep for twenty-four long weeks.
"Drop in the bucket" the sixty-year-olds say. I say, bring me my ******* fourth dimension blocks and cubes ************ I want to visit the existential, I want to experience the hoo-ra and Ga-Ga those kids throw around on Milwaukee waiting for $150 NBA slippers.
Wednesday is my day for telling the truth.
2:00p.m. sitting in the front of her alizarin El Dorado.
"I have something I have to tell you," I said, my mouth practically filled with marbles as I barely could Utter the words: it's not going to work out.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:51 AM UTC
It wasnt long before the baluster flapped somewhere in the distance and Icarus knew how old he had been on the day of his birth. For whatever reason, the snow capped cappuccinos he had willfully destroyed in a heated debate on fiscal policy had him beginning again. Why was there always a beginning where there was an end? Fur traders used to circumnavigate the Hudson's Bay of his humanity when he was young, sharing drinks and fire water whiskey like it was all an H2O ready for the soul search. Sadly, many ended up in Hitlers concentration camps weeks after the **** invasion of Poland, about a month or so before the fall of the Roman Empire. Beginning with a last breath, Icarus strode off the plank with a new-found confidence unnatural in his niceties of long past. It was as if 1 minute and 35 seconds was enough to dish a clamouring populace onto the dinner table before the fat step-father gleefully orders
everyone to 'dig in, everyone!'
Cancelling everyone's appointment with Dr. Pardon meant the gaining of a key participatory certificate in El Dorado, and the gold lingering in dusty sun-beams was sifted for the taking. Some got rich, the rest got miserable. The rest used to imagine the gold, staring at ivory towers and lottery tickets, apple cores lording over old public servant applications near the city hall drain pipes as the modern world collapsed into a flash-mob image of Ronald Reagan.
Icarus was a sliver of duskish light flittering a top distant windowsills, all cupped in an intentional light because happiness was as possible as sadness. Not that considering either would make you either.
Icarus slept as his wings incinerated at the first glimpse of the solar system. He now believed every single proverb the old ***** slumbers had whispered their children as they woke to find themselves adults.
In the beginning he found the beginning beginning again. It made him feel however you wish. Both were just as possible. Both were just as much a jazz configuration as a smooth and easy guitar rift.
Ahha!
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
Feels like slavery
With weight our shoulders
Havent We endured enough?
From One Bolder To The Next?
Like needles draining our blood for energy
The White Gold of Saturn
Using Led from congress
Our Spring Streams Have Run Dried
Directed into a Different lines and Process
Guarded by Projects With Capitalism at its finest
Racism and favoritism.
The Collective Body Shivers .
With stretch lines on her skin with her magnitude of her tears.
The stages of legions unleashed.
Souls in battle using a leash.
Things have been disowned and blown.
The Headdress will take its throne.
The Shield Into El-dorado that is known.
Grids awaken from the Amerindian parts of the jaguars tradition.
Collective religious cultures unleashed from its disposition.
The beauty that brings a new position.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 7:10 PM UTC
Between empty junction gullies of the Dogskin mountains,
the BLM has once again released their Judas horses
luring the free ranging mustangs into capture corrals.
Their crime --- thriving in a battle of survival.
I assure you the Comanche do not dance around the fire,
nor does the ghost of Cortez roll in the wildflowers of El Dorado.
Ironically this native species is now considered feral,
introduced in the very habitat which shaped its evolution,
arcanely empowered to exceed enviromental carrying capacity.
The lands of nature are so dear: rejoice their freedom!
The mountains do not judge, they merely shelter.
Let the mustang graze unfettered through winds of dawn.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:56 AM UTC
He ido a ver el parque de Lezama
en el atardecer de un día cualquiera,
y me he encontrado uno diferente
al que por tantos años conociera.
Era aquél un jardín ya carcomido
por lloviznas y líquenes y amores,
flexuoso de raíces y de lianas
y envenenado por extrañas flores.
Contraluces de manos vagarosas
de caricias visibles o furtivas.
Generaciones, ¡ay!, que en él buscaron
frondas podridas para bocas vivas.
Cuando la noche lo llenaba todo
y cuajaban en ella las parejas,
erguidas en recónditos senderos
o desmayadas en las altas rejas.
No está siquiera aquel jarrón de bronce
en que cierto crepúsculo dorado
pusimos los levísimos sombreros
y unos versos leímos de Machado.
"A ti, Guiomar, esta nostalgia mía..."
Y en la tarde agravada tu voz honda
estremecía la hoja de los árboles
y el cristal de la brisa y de la onda.
Era hora de estrella y media luna,
de pío agudo, de croar de rana,
de guardián gigantesco y solapado
y de visera en la pelambre cana.
Cada estatua era Venus palpitante,
cada palmera recta era el Oriente,
mientras afuera el tránsito zumbaba
su ventarrón de coches y de gente.
Cuando se entrecerraba la corola
sobre la dulce gota del estigma,
cuando se ahondaban como dos aljibes
en mí la ingenuidad y en ti el enigma.
Ni la vieja escalera de ladrillos
húmedos, desgastados y musgosos.
Todo es argamasa y pedregullo
y barnices espesos y olorosos.
Patricio, enhiesto parque de Lezama
cortado y recortado a mi deseo,
verdinegro por donde te mirase
salvo el halo de oro del Museo:
desde un bar arco iris te saludo
ahito de café y melancolía,
dejo en la silla próxima una rosa
y digo tu elegía y mi elegía.
2.6k
Southwestern Dis-United States of Memory
Piñon smoke and sagebrush, voice of New Mexico night driving into an Arizona dawn rising over dreaming pueblos, low-ridden plazas, kivas and ruined cities’ rubble traced and highlighted by sunlight, Anglo angling into Aztec toward Zuni over arid zones… A to Z to El Dorado; a voice covers the high hills with a dusting of snow—every word hangs in the notes of the song: music to fall apart to, breakdown to, hurling the soul into the bottomless well of psychotic nostalgia: música de cavanga, falling into the depths. Melody pushing to the threshold of a bar and leaving you there with cash in your pocket and no ride home. The warmth inside beckons—you step across as the song fills, swells, intoxicates, then excavates the wall of the dam until it collapses. The fatal mistake: you read too much into the lyrics of shallow love songs. The deathwish beast of despair arises, the flooded plains dazzle your eyes, the Indian girl smiles on the rim of the grand canyon, the tattooed cholo pulls a knife in the trailer park, the dark waters under the bridge murmur and surge with regret; el río de Las Animas, Durango CO, Aztec calligraphy on the wall: Las Cruces, NM; Clifton, Morenci, Globe, AZ: stepped pyramids of copper tailings, gang-warred walls in fallen barrios covered in Chicano hieroglyphics, the ruined huts of shepherds and cowboys, pit-house dwellings’ flaked arrowheads and pottery fragments scattered forever in the coyote laugh of desert dusk. Crepuscular colors on the names of mountain ranges: Santa Catalina, Sangre de Cristo, Sandia, each one a separate sunset delirium—then you ride through the night to the city of palm trees and the orange-lined boulevards of Heaven.
The singer herself grew old but her YouTubes live forever.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
You're laid out with a blank stare
with dreams of becoming a millionaire
on the couch where you're ensnared
stuck in what you call a nightmare
Sorry I have no sympathy
to your muscle atrophy
while you lay in envy
I just can not pity
so I invite you to the city
to come experience poetry
its what helps me feel less ******
No thanks, just let me wallow
while my soul feels so hollow
I will not, can not, follow
I have lost my bravado
go on you wild desperado
to your El Dorado
At least one of us has found gold.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 8:37 AM UTC
Is this it ? Is this (to be) the One ?
....No! It won't work, it never does... they never do
It works for others yes!
But no! not for me
Have seen too many false dawns now
I won't fool myself again with thoughts of...
Thoughts of El Dorado land.
Just because I've found a new way
And it'll feel good for a little while
But then it'll go just like they always go
Those nice feelings that come
They lie to me, they laugh at me
Make a fool of me every time
Like a mirage
Dancing tantalisingly in the distance
Only to disappear once you grow near
I know their not going to last, not going to stay
They'll not take me... not take me to El Dorado land.
But still, maybe... maybe I'll celebrate all the same
Just for the hell of it
Make believe that this was surely IT this time
Yea! I'll get a little drunk and pretend, pretend I've found it at last
What I've always been looking for,
All those years of looking and never finding
Feeding on scraps, vague intuitions, funny dreams and feelings...
Even though I know it's not gonna work
Knowing that behind it all it was always bound to fail
That I'll always be outside those gates looking in
Knowing I'm not invited.
II
They talked of a land that was wondrous, marvellous!
Not something out there but something here within
Of a strength that was golden, that was yours and yours alone
That could never be stolen
A great treasure that lay inside... that lay within
I read their books, I studied their maps
And then I set out, I set out for El Dorado land.
I followed them as best I could
I tried, I tried but seemed to lose every time
I know - I know I did it wrong
I always do it wrong
Wrong is where I live I think
Wrong is where I come from
Probably Wrong is where I belong.
I'm old now
I watched and waited too long
And nothing much really happened
And no one...no one came.
To have lived and never to have seen, never to have known
El Dorado land.
May 20, 2021
May 20, 2021 at 10:09 AM UTC
Amables Brasas en ascuas
descienden de un cielo de mosto
alcanzando la carnosa fatiga
de las ramas y de tus dudas
Como dibujos de tinta
caminan los animales en celo
y un murmullo de elfos
empuja hongos y furias
hasta el borde del frío
donde la tierra se empapa
de calma y de lumbre.
Es Otoño, y hay luz en tu casa
Una luz antigua que me ampara
y me guia, siluetas amables
que invitan y esperan
al que llega
siempre tarde del bosque.
Un suelo tibio
de pisadas y hocicos
crepita suave en las repisas doradas
un terco ajetreo vegetal y manso
se desliza bajo los pies descalzos
de un corzo mudo y dorado
que llena de asombro
la mañana de rocio tejida.
Es horizontal la intimidad
entre las viñas desposeídas
y los árboles insomnes.
Los soles maduros acumulan
sus frutas sobre el techo de la tarde
y todo lo que tiembla al norte del aire
se pudre mansamente
hacia los tesoros de marzo.
Un olor a nueces iza banderas de humo
y carne de castañas exhibe el crepúsculo
Una canción se esconde y se escucha
y unas muchachas se persiguen
y se esconden cantando
un estribillo prestado por el viajero perdido.
Hay voces prendidas en las ventanas
que arden lentamente
como adioses marchitos
Es tiempo de regresos y
dormidas semillas, y de animales
rumiando los breves días
y las largas noches henchidas de cuentos
El vino más joven
ya rezuma en las jarras
un mosto agridulce
parece exprimido del cielo
No hay prisa pues la luz es lenta
en llegar a las cocinas de Otoño
perpetuamente encendidas
con los rescoldos de los soles más viejos.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 11:02 AM UTC
there is black at the end of every miracle
and the base of every rainbow where the colors drip
and mix in the sickest sort of chorus.
color and rain and atmospheric moisture,
you kneeled under a rainbow and prayed;
water in your alveoli paint in your bronchi,
you inhaled all your art
to make yourself prettier on the inside -
{but that doesn't work when everything you paint
is uglier than anything else:
broken ***** girls
and rusted knives and rotten fruit -
how can you expect to be beautiful with a rotting apple
for a heart?
you're an abandoned orchard,
falling to seed when you once fed a nation,
dry earth dead trees rotten rotten fruit
remember your glory days and cry}
you were a blackbird but time plucked all your feathers
you were a blackbird but now, oh,
with all your yellow blood,
canary in a coal mine you knew it was too late.
you were the first to be tragic.
the first to choke on coaldust -
the road to el dorado is paved in coal
and all the gold is smudged in black from the men who sought riches
but brought with them misery.
canary in a coal mine you died in el dorado,
canary in a coal mine you died in a city
of your blood.
there is black at the end of every miracle and the beginning of every tragedy
but if all goes well it'll be all
blues and reds
by the end of the story.
drowned and bled,
primary colors for your finale.
you knew these colors would be your end, blue and red blue and red
and you sought out yellow,
canary in a coal mine, ***** el dorado,
yellow hope yellow fear
primary colors like building blocks,
carbon the base of the universe
blueredyellow the base of the paintings you inhaled,
blueredyellow and carbon coal.
you were a blackbird and blueredyellow in the reflections of your wings,
oily rainbows on your back
primary colors in your lungs,
and all your gaunt thoughts envelop you you never should have tried
to be beautiful -
a tragic hero can only do so much before falling apart
a tragedy can only go so far before it becomes comedy.
you inhaled all your paintings and they live in your lungs
live and rot and cry because you never painted happiness
{it's hard to paint something that doesn't exist,
it's hard to paint something you've never known -
abandoned orchard you rot beside the highway and cry.
tell yourself happiness doesn't exist,
cause that's better than knowing
it's there
but you're just
not
worthy}
blackbird canary-blood apple-heart
do you even know who you are anymore?
all the broken ***** girls in your lungs
and the crying boys in your mind -
you never knew who you were,
fragmented as you are -
all your masks are just
sick echoes of the parts of you that wouldn't burn,
all your paintings are just sick echoes of the parts of you
scattered over el dorado.
gather yourself up,
knit yourself back together -
make your nest in a flak suit and sleep dreaming of you.
the coal burns around you and you don't stop singing
you will not be the only tragedy in this mine.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
The sands of El Dorado
Lash my tongue under tarp;
Wishes born something golden,
Fried eggs under beds
And homes, abodes in progress,
One peso at a time –
A tale and tear with every grain,
An allowance and granted only
Broken window.
The ragged lump of pillow
Where I now taste time,
Reeks of mescal with my
One white elbow
Tapping one bronze elbow;
Distant, under woven wanderings
And tattered dreams of parents
Wishing well – come subtle guilt,
Whilst the roofs of a prior Tibet
Tap atop my tether.
And while I ponder what strums –
Atriums, tempest and tubular,
I also reckon in what it means to be
Held and held alike
So that I can protect
And protect alike;
She’s waiting for me in “before”
And in Mexico, in the “now,”
So much sooner the past.
So to sooner, broken the future.
And so mothers will cry in kitchens,
Others laugh come the next fool
And yet others, abandon others
So that soon, recklessly soon, my feet
Make a wonderful twist toward away;
But at least I’d had this sunset –
Something to ride off into like the
Liquid dreams off a furrowed brow
And at least we’d had “we” on more time.
Just one more time.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
[Hook: Legacy]
Lock me up throw away the key
I'll make sure I won't stop
If you make sure it's wet for me
You got me trapped for life
I'm probably gonna die in you
Prisoner inside I'm a prisoner inside you
[Verse 1: Legacy]
Imagine your face after our lips touch
One time it's cool for you to kiss your daddy
You say that your last couldn't make you bust
Well baby my love will make you trigger happy
Once you let it off it's gonna sound like
I'm a bring yo **** back and put it down like
I Know that I'm good I got that loud pipe
They hear it outside (baby don't that sound like... ***
Baby come hear I swear I'll slow it down
All you kno is weak and stroke
Well I'm wat you don't know about
We close I know I know ***** got you opened now
Into deep in that ************ hope he drownds
Started talkin **** like I couldn't hold it down
Baby came up broke I know **** sure dat ain't oprahs child
She love tha *** so much that she wrote her vows
This is my third strike I guess I'm goin down
[Hook: Legacy]
Lock me up throw away the key
I'll make sure I won't stop
If you make sure it's wet for me
You got me trapped for life
I'm probably gonna die in you
Prisoner inside I'm a prisoner inside you
Lock me up throw away the key
I'll make sure I won't stop
If you make sure it's wet for me
You got me trapped for life
I'm probably gonna die in you
Prisoner inside I'm a prisoner inside you
[Verse 2: Legacy]
I asked her for a rubber (I asked her for a rubber)
She said that she ain't got one (she said that she ain't got one)
I said I'll only do one pump then
**** it I ain't stoppin
She said that she can't *** no more
Can I catch my breath please? "I said yeah"
She dozed off then woke up to a wet dream
She told me stop it *****
I can't be around you bust when you touch it
And now I'm ****** when I think about you
She asked me how I do it? and I'm like "hell if I know"
My toungue just hunting gold your ***** El Dorado
And I'm enjoying it never ashamed
My head could stay under that blancket for days
You'll have to pull me away
Now her belly wasn't fakin'
She waz humble to my gift cause she said she couldn't take it
I don't kno why they act like prison is the worst place
As long as it's witchu I'll be missing every court date
[Hook: Legacy]
Lock me up throw away the key
I'll make sure I won't stop
If you make sure it's wet for me
You got me trapped for life
I'm probably gonna die in you
Prisoner inside I'm a prisoner inside you
Lock me up throw away the key
I'll make sure I won't stop
If you make sure it's wet for me
You got me trapped for life
I'm probably gonna die in you
Prisoner inside I'm a prisoner inside you
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 1:25 PM UTC
I've got eyes on every planet
weeping like watering holes, out of El Dorado.
only they're not golden nor heralding,
these eyes are wide and dilated
before a nameless, naked mistress with lipstick,
smeared between her inner thighs.
You thought that I was your special Siren,
a blind post script for your middle-class suburban soul,
with a girlish laugh and perfect teeth.
But, honey, I've eaten too many men alive in darker alleys
and I gave that up years ago because emptiness
only fuels the dead and I got sick of people
who never changed and always took the same way to work.
So please- dismiss those touching thoughts,
like some small school boy tardy to class
in the 1950s with knee socks covering scabs
and a case of fresh milk in glass.
Alas,- call off your self-designed verbal troops
for I am not your revolutionary cry, nothing you try
can protest the things I've been, willingly.
I should confide to you now that
Sisyphus, himself, already walked away,
with his head in between his shoulders and tears upon his cheeks.
Listen to me child,
I am no myth to be tempted,
Pandora opened my own box.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
Love envelops my languid soul
I lounge in its warm embrace
A content poet is a dry inkwell
Yet the ink is congealed with satisfaction
I refuse to allow joy to slow my quill
Too many poets quest for love through language
Many drown in the bliss of El Dorado
Lost forever, bathing in golden love
I will drink golden cups of passion
Play in priceless fieds of frienship
But I will pause to respect it's fragility
And to be a beacon for those lost in windless seas
For I once wore the albatross around my neck
My thirst is now quenched in golden oceans
I wish to be a gentle wind in the sails of the castaways
For love envelops my languid soul
And so it can and must for all
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
Gira
la negra,
gira
la luna,
gira
la negra luna,
sobre sí propia,
gira
la negra
luna
de ebonita,
gira la negra luna de ebonita
-sobre sí propia- y canta:
-¡Bah! ¡Canciones! Y músicas abstractas...!
Y, lo que canta, es la Música Viva!
Oye el Viaje de Invierno, de Franz Schubert,
y el Rey de los Alisos,
y El Doble y Ganímedes y Ante el mar,
y de Schumann, Amores de un poeta,
y de Dupare, Invitación al viaje
y La vida anterior...,
y de Chopín, Preludios y Nocturnos:
tú, soñador romántico; tú, doliente elegíaco.
Oye la voz serena,
la voz profunda oye
de Bach -añosa encina,
inmensurable selva, órgano él mismo y templo
de la harmonía-:
tú, sereno y profundo.
Y de Mozart el diáfano y sortílego,
y de Haydn y Franck, la cortesana
y la mística voz, inconfundibles,
tú, gustador de lo pulcro y etéreo.
Los Cánticos y Danzas de la Muerte,
y Sin sol, de Musorgski,
tú, angustiado, febril, hiperestésico;
y Borís Godunov, Borís Godunov, oye,
(bárbara gesta, miedo, sangre, lujuria y fausto)
tú, Sátrapa en los sueños...
Y, catador sutil de quintaesencias,
gusta la mediatinta debussyana,
pesquisidora de inusados timbres
y lontanos acordes, 1
en un dorado ambiente de calígine.
Y, borracho de lumbres y colores,
Óye, de Rímski, Antar y Xeherazada
y el Gallo de oro -vértigo y lascivia-:
mas, si de ritmos ebrio, tú, frenético
danzarín, danza todas las furias de Stravínski
-del sabio y del bufón mezcladas dósis-:
fino humor ricos timbres, forma clara 2
(sobria, o en concertado cataclismo).
Y oye, en la noche, y en Tristán e Iseo,
la voz vigía de Brangane, plena
de lo fatal, o el corno quejumbroso;
si no los Funerales de Sigfrido;
o el Tránsito al Valhalla, milagroso tumulto.
Y tú, plasmado en bronce, los vastos himnos oye,
óye las soberanas sinfonías
con que la voz del Sordo el orbe nutre!
Las acendradas síntesis:
sonatas y quátuors, insólito prodigio, filtros puros:
la Misa en re, misterio panteísta,
denso peán a la Naturaleza!
Y el trágico clangor de Coriolano...:
oye la voz del Indomado Prometeo,
oye la voz del Sordo, oye la voz del Sordo!
Gira la negra luna,
gira
sobre sí propia,
gira la negra luna de ebonita,
gira
la negra
luna
de ebonita
-sobre sí propia- y canta:
-Bah! Ficciones! Y músicas abstractas...!
Y, lo que canta, es la Música Misma!
1.6k
I was the one who received the faithful letter from Mr. Darcy
I was the one who held Holden when he cried
I was the one who Guy Montague thought was beautiful
I was the one who Heathcliff came back to the Wuthering Heights for
I was the one who Mr. Rochester tried to illegally marry
I was the one who D'Artagnan grieved over after the abduction
I was the one who Captain Wentworth fell back in love with
I was the one who Dorian Gray actually cared for
I was the one who Candide brought the gold for in El Dorado
I was the one who Winston Smith kissed in that attic
I was the one who cried when they all left me with a silent flipping of a page
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
Verás la maravilla de camino,
camino de soñada Compostela
-¡oh monte lila y flavo!-, peregrino,
en un llano, entre chopos de candela.
Otoño con dos ríos ha dorado
el cerco del gigante centinela
de piedra y luz, prodigio torreado
que en el azul sin mancha se modela.
Verás en la llanura una jauría
de agudos galgos y un señor de caza,
cabalgando a lejana serranía,
vano fantasma de una vieja raza.
Debes entrar cuando en la tarde fría
brille un balcón de la desierta plaza.
1.3k
Time, kindness and knowledge
are above the price of
gold
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 7:51 AM UTC
heavy golden mangoes
gushing golden rivers
where the birds are treasure chests and sing like my momma
where a shellshocked man can rest and release the burden of trauma
the grass kisses your skin and the warm wind hugs you from behind
i could not believe my eyes
i found El Dorado from peeking inside
May 17, 2023
May 17, 2023 at 8:12 AM UTC
You may record me in your over-edited, excerpts.
What men claim as their story.
Salty, bitter history, versus jaystory.
Throw my revolution in the sand.
But still, like the dust on your mantle,
I am lifted.
Even deceased I can stand.
Does my challenge anger you?
Are you overwhelmed with a match?
My words can open cans of worms
Your little politician promising can't patch
Up, or be swept under that with a broom
I will haunt you with my revolutions
Like I'm zeus in his own living room.
Like the endless universe to our moon.
To the fall of capitalism soon
To the 24 frames a second on networks of cartoons
Or those stuck in the trip of two caps of a shroom
Stay in tune
Like your high school's marching band
However I have to
I'll find ways to stand
I know someone would rather see me broken, crippled, legless, without feet.
A head hung low and eyes even lower so
Shoulders challenging one one another to how much closer to the ground one can go.
Does my attitude offend you?
Don't take my strength too too hard
I'll laugh like I've got El Dorado
Underneath my back yard.
You may shoot me with your thoughts
Your words, throwing heat from steamed pots
But me with your eyes, thinking it may do a lot
You may **** me with your hateful energy, maybe you can
But whatever state the world leaves me in
I will continue to stand.
Does my appeal make you angry?
It frequently comes as a surprise
I dance as if 50 carat diamonds lie between my two thighs
My history might have shame, lost in brutal command
But that's then, this is now, so regardless I stand
I'm an endless waterfall, unmeasurable in feet
The fact I can't hear myself is also funny to me.
Since water is a sound that my ears cannot reach.
But at least by my wonder to some I can teach.
That there is nothing you cannot withstand.
So with my my revolutionaries
Together. We stand.
I stand. To dawn and then back.
I stand. Regardless of your wrath.
I stand. I am the dream, and in hopes, the hope of the change.
I stand and I'll stand.
Till a new story's engraved.
I stand.
To when history is just a story.
Not belonging to a man.
vi.xx.xii
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 6:45 AM UTC
*La cosa es que te quiero.
Te quiero mas que a las flores en primavera.
Te quiero más que al sol en verano.
Te quiero más que a los árboles en otoño.
Te quiero más que al viento en invierno.
Te quiero más que a las 4 estaciones.
Te quiero más que a las 4 pm cuando el sol le da un toque dorado a las cosas.
Te quiero más que a las 5 am cuando el sol sale con pereza y el ambiente es azul claro.
Te quiero más que a las 10 am cuando la cuidad se calla y los pájaros hablan.
Te quiero más que a los 12 meses.
Te quiero más que a los 365 días.*
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 7:35 AM UTC
Y las sombras se abrieron otra vez y mostraron tu cuerpo:
tu pelo, otoño espeso, caída de agua solar,
tu boca y la blanca disciplina de sus dientes caníbales, prisioneros en llamas
tu piel de pan apenas dorado y tus ojos de azúcar quemada,
sitios en donde el tiempo no transcurre,
valles que sólo mis labios conocen,
desfiladero de la luna que asciende a tu garganta entre tus senos,
cascada petrificada de la nuca,
alta meseta de tu vientre,
playa sin fin de tu costado.
Tus ojos son los ojos fijos del tigre
y un minuto después son los ojos húmedos del perro.
Siempre hay abejas en tu pelo.
Tu espalda fluye tranquila bajo mis ojos
como la espalda del río a la luz del incendio.
Aguas dormidas golpean día y noche tu cintura de arcilla
y en tus costas, inmensas como los arenales de la luna,
el viento sopla por mi boca y su largo quejido cubre con sus dos alas grises
la noche de los cuerpos,
como la sombra del águila la soledad del páramo.
Las uñas de los dedos de tus pies están hechas del
cristal del verano.
Entre tus piernas hay un pozo de agua dormida,
bahía donde el mar de noche se aquieta, ***** caballo de espuma,
cueva al pie de la montaña que esconde un tesoro,
boca del horno donde se hacen las hostias,
sonrientes labios entreabiertos y atroces,
nupcias de la luz y la sombra, de lo visible y lo invisible
(allí espera la carne su resurrección y el día de la vida perdurable).
Patria de sangre,
única tierra que conozco y me conoce,
única patria en la que creo,
única puerta al infinito.
1.2k
En la tranquila noche, mis nostalgias amargas sufría.
En busca de quietud bajé al fresco y callado jardín.
En el obscuro cielo Venus bella temblando lucía,
como incrustado en ébano un dorado y divino jazmín.A mi alma enamorada, una reina oriental parecía,
que esperaba a su amante bajo el techo de su camarín,
o que, llevada en hombros, la profunda extensión recorría,
triunfante y luminosa, recostada sobre un palanquín.«¡Oh, reina rubia! -díjele-, mi alma quiere dejar su crisálida
y volar hacia ti, y tus labios de fuego besar;
y flotar en el nimbo que derrama en tu frente luz pálida,y en siderales éxtasis no dejarte un momento de amar».
El aire de la noche refrescaba la atmósfera cálida.
Venus, desde el abismo, me miraba con triste mirar.
1.2k
After the end
she wore the beige bra that she bought for him
because he liked plain things
under a dark turtleneck that meant she was mourning
their loss even if maybe he wasn't
she shivered into the street
and watched the palm drop on the moon,
the stars pop out like street lights whose bulbs you couldn't change,
their high up light bleached the night,
falling over the Prius, bouncing off the half-bumpered Honda, sliding down the metal window connector of the neighborhood's only El Dorado before ending up on pavement like most things do
the garage seemed to radiate and
other people's windows glowed yellow
as she turned to go
a cat rolled across the four lane road
like it was a meadow
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 3:44 AM UTC