acaso se puede quitar uno el borde;

el borde de lo que se intentó decir

el borde de la lluvia pendiente

el borde seco en un tablón mojado

el borde de las cosas que no se entienden muy bien.

¿se va?¿a dónde?

¿a los cuántos se convierte “uno” en uno?

quiero aprender a desprenderme de ellos,

o al menos saber si puedo convertirlos en una unidad,

atarlos a los ideales que se hace uno para anticiparse

al chico que no quiero

al que quiero

a las áreas que necesitan un extra push para desaparecer.

¡parad!, no es como -desaparecer- de adiós,

es como un: “tengo la valentía, me falta el objetivo”

tipo de desaparición,

un poco al estilo Hitchcock.

Quisiera nombrar mis bordes

para reconocerlos cuando los necesite

ese que está en mis silencios en medio de discusiones

verlo y llamarlo: ¡ah, si eres tu desconfianza!

O el otro que visita sólo cuando hay compañía

¡ya te extrañaba auto-sabotaje!¿Té?

aunque no sirva de mucho,

acaso saber que el borde del domingo es el lunes

ayuda a la digestión

a la sensación de tocar algo que resbala

quizás ¿quererlo?

consistirá esto de interactuar entre nos

un traspaso de

la pelota caliente

que pasa y pasa y pasa

pasa

        pasa..

hasta que se prohíbe

o se detiene

al inicio

tal cual el mito de sisífo

que ya no sería más que una frase moderna para distinguirse del resto

que tanto se rehuyen (de sí)

cómo se quitarían los plurales

que los definen

y exluyen de sí mismos.

Como quitarse la luz de encima

sin acumularse entre facturas

mejor irse

y dejad la interpretación al intérprete

por suerte, por un tantito del tiempo no somos

todas las cosas

ni sus bordes

ni sus significados

pero sí todos sus vacíos

uno a la vez

Sunday nights remind me of those scenes on French films where the lover confessed his darkest sins to the girl of his dreams, and she, as the naive she was meant to perform, cut all contact she could have with the man, despite of the love she felt for him, despite of the love she felt towards the sinners.

Sunday nights have a peculiar smell, it’s neither sweet nor sour, it’s more like the odor rising from the grass in the yard shortly after the rain has stopped. It has its own depths, and levels, and days within the night.

Sunday nights were made to be home, in front of the cozy American junk television, with no bigger purpose than to fill the void experimented during the lack of activity of the first twelve hours of the day.

It had its particular flow, one to which we could only accomodate without interruption. An obligation of us was to let it happen as it wanted to happen, oh yes, Sundays had a ritual, we sat on the kitchen floor at eight am just to smell the over-boiled coffee and the steady oxidation of the old saucepan when meeting the scrambled eggs to-be.

Sunday nights brought its tiny disasters, each time. An individual tragedy awaiting the dawn of a Monday to be forgotten. Some drama occupied more space than others, of course, as it always happens with the spontaneity on collapsing, and there were those specific cases where personal romance intervened with the act of speculating. We always preferred the silent commotion, the one that took place after all foreheads were kissed good-night, after all blessings were spread from the descendant to its descendants and the doors were closed; a prolongation of love.

And with them came the distinct ramifications of frustration, the inadequacy within expectations, the nods, the winks, the privacy on being awkward without skipping the magic, on being the poison and its antidote.

Explain me how to love without appropiating it, press your lips gently and enlight me on how do I gather pieces of warmness without mischieving the body I took them from.

I’ve burnt on high fevers due to bad weather during whole days and half nights, and not even on delirium my thoughts could envisage love, what has it done for thou?

Please explain love to me, press your lips softly on the ideas you've been cherishing during years, those concepts on which you stand on each morning without giving in to the remembrance of pain, the one you’ve caused, the one you’ve felt.

Does it feel like humidity? Sticky to the skin, virtually asphyxiating. Or does it resemble a mockingbird? ambiguous and eternal on its "catch me if you can" life motto, the survival edition.

It's just that I´ve felt, and I’ve endured, Although haven't come to terms with signs interpretation, so, how do I spot If I've been lived by love Could an unnoticed love, be love? so smooth, so easy, so dull, Isn’t this fascination for destruction (ctrl+z) another hoax we play to ourselves, is it?

If so, Thomas, could you tell me how can I protect the loved ones from love.

If photography is your thing Buy an iPhone!, I’ve heard that those specialized Nikons are overrated, Oh, it adds a “forced-labor” je ne se quois to the pictures, Hashtag: “French it until you make it”.

Thus, it's how I found the motif underneath all self-exposure: dissemblance.

When I turned eighteen years old, they told me to get a career, that will do, don't you want to keep talking for long hours after the party is over? Choose wisely, avoid the Non-American professions derived from a technicism allied to an against, read Kant for the pride empathize with Hegel for the gods, that poor misunderstood bogus could take you somewhere, yes, some-desperation-where.

Avoid the consumption driven society, until, of course, you are able to excel it, which stands for: save money until you find an instagrammable object  to spend it all on, try to invest on pastels (yes, 10k followers are an inversion), if you ever find fitness obsessed pastels, empty your bank account, let them take your money.

They asked me to put borders to the universe, and identify with them, if I’m willing to, I should call it a genre, because it helps at a thirty something childless age, I asked, would you contemplate a what if?

If that would do, they answered, what if as a noun, as a number, as a silent fatal disease bringing the salutes of all the lost aunties, as a plan turning into a government of slangs and hijacks.

Oh, and play,  but don’t dare to listen, instead, gravitate around the Sonora’s Myths, sniff the letters, inject the mix, feel the post-production and call it having a soul.

l I love you.

the light cracked; an ambiguous answer in approval of the authorless fight against the injustice of being unable to answer “I love you too”.

ll  If one’s body  is weightless after dying, how one’s heart behave after being given to the ocean, the one which is dead, a desperate recall, possibly an omen.

 lll I’ve stayed on the space where nothing fits, memory.

IV who taught you so much about the moon, the rotten crops?

V He fainted at the idea  of losing her, so she left while he was still unconscious.

PT I.

Lay your head on the freshly washed pillow that you bought at IKEA, it’s 8:00 PM, you haven’t slept. The dominical family meeting always gets away with the best of your politeness, understanding and forbearance, but you are fine with it anyways, aren’t you? Who else will calmly serve your inner monster but the ones who called him out, so recapitulate on the late hours, when aunt Hilda believed she could still pull that jealousy driven drama about an allegedly existent mistress on her husband's life,

Oh Hilda, c’mon, he’s 65 years old now, he wouldn’t handle one anyways一 you claim, because age is the greatest of the barriers, and the strongest of the shields, ain’t it? 一I reckon he must be cheating you with that pizza slide you hid on the refrigerator. Ease.

Each Sunday It takes place on a different house, you are still the mediator no matter what,  that widely known attitude of yours to deal with drama is the reason why your mother saves you extra pie whenever she bakes her glorious banana cake. I will admit that you were a fun show, a ridiculously pretty female, the stereotype, a gazelle. An unusually calm woman who found enjoyment on the innocuous activity of thought. We met, and I couldn’t recognize the itchiness on your fingertips, the pouring on your eyes nor the twinkling of your feet whenever I spoke, and it’s not until now how I understand this activities as a transcendental fact of your persona.  The unavoidable attachment to concepts, that’s the monologue on which your discourse rests, indistinctly of who watched, you were, and subsisted as a coalition of my worse fears and my most noble fixations.

I cringed a little at your wilderness, the wide spectrum on which you moved, as the most happy of the mortals I saw you swift gracefully among the darkest of your days, move undoubtedly towards the light, but light mistook the movement as a competence, you were always trying to reach it, and it was always trying to not be cracked by you, a prism.

Got milkshake?, I laughed, I was about to suffer an overdose, who were you trying to beat? What was that which we were struggling to overcome? I asked, you looked at me with your almond eyes and I understood how this whole tactic was not about a pronoun. Am I the only one who is approaching the tangible? The ever destructive structure of the I?

He orbits around deafening sounds: the rain the ocean wind and the screech produced by belligerent splits.  

Threshing a feeling from its root, there he goes, dancing with his own frenzy while standing oblivious in the midst of a bad trip, a posteriori, merely a trip.

Oh, such reckless behavior of his didn’t allow him to have prolonged desires.  He relied on his idea of time, because what would be more appealing to someone with no thirst for establishment but an abstraction?; a reluctant approach to property.

Boy loved despite of love,  holding within his questions the fear of alteration, performing with tenderness the act of liveliness.

Standing on sketches of himself which will remain as such, not due to a lack of determination but to a silly insistence on grasping onto a freedom defined by its absence of form.

{baby became  plural, borderless, a poignant photogram of les temps modernes}

Los lunes son unos días de perros, la madrugada llega más rápido, el calor es insoportable, la ciudad se alborota como si la persiguiese una manada de lobos, sólo que no pasa.

Además, el sol se amarillenta en las tardes, como invertido, igual el tiempo, las horas en la mañana se acumulan menos que en la tarde, por eso uno a las cuatro p.m se sienta frente al ordenador a escuchar a Mingus mientras le pasa una semana a las manillas del reloj para llegar a las cinco p.m, porque los lunes son el rojo, el rojo del tiempo alejándose en el espacio.

Las personas se ornamentan con lo mejor que tienen para el peor de los casos, en probabilidad le llaman criterio Maximin, yo lo conozco como cultura de impresión, es eso de pegarse stickers en las pupilas para sobrevivir en las meetings sobre temas tan relevantes como lo que no se debió hacer pero se hizo, y qué se hará para volver a hacer lo indebido otra maldita vez.

Ni modo, cuando uno adultece se hace parte de la cultura día 1 de la semana, eso de sorber el café extra fuerte, poner baladas pop del dos mil y enternecerse porque el almuerzo está a cinco minutos de distancia de que termine uno cortándose con los papeles del desk. María le dice a Max que no se toque la cara, que se la infecta, maría le dice a Max que se anime, que no es el fin, que apenas comienza, que la alegría, bla, que la paz, bla, que bla. Y Max termina llorando en el toilette porque recordó como a los once le gritó a su mamá porque no le había comprado los LEGO del anuncio de la juguetería. Todo eso por ser lunes, porque el tiempo carga su reacción emocional, su humanidad.

Y hay miles más, miles de bordes que sólo se ven en ese día, que no existen, que se oscurecen los findes, que no cortan, hay más.  Pero nadie escucha, el gerente habla de su nena, de que la peque casi muerte por electroshock, y se ríe, porque nada más divertido que una tragedia antes de iniciar la semana, le da a uno una sensación de poder, retrasar el inicio, pausarlo. Y me quedo, estoica, sin rostro, mirando su cara, impaciente esperando que se aterrorice con mi reacción, pero es ajeno, ¡Nadie escucha!

Y llega la noche, pasan las ocho, las doce y no se distinguen los sonidos, las sábanas y la tv bien podrían sustituirse una a la otra, la cena del lunes no se celebra, es como una transacción necesaria para el martes, sí, un proceso burocrático.

Y se quieren, poco, los que pueden, entre los límites del fin del inicio, y el inicio del fin, ahí se entretienen mirándose el acné del estrés post-lunes, y Max mira a maría y le dice lo siento, María besa a Max y le dice que está bien, que no es él, que es el lunes.

—That’s too risqué. — well-known breach, oftenly overlooked until the path where "will happen" and "happened" meet.

—Don’t be fool; instead, I would like to consider it a delightful place to encounter with those with the startled faces! — I cringed, what was left for us?  The simple-minded, the ones whose immediate decision stemmed from an unsatisfied need to feel safe, not to transcend.

We, the unwise heap who found the gods, the gods that have repeatedly abandoned us in the darkest of times.

I sat as the rain drowned the kids, under the appellation they used to describe death; "a blessing", "a message of faith", a gruesome reminder of their paucity.

Wine gushed during seven days and seven nights, to the pleased eyes of the land-owners, kindness could only be conceived when people drank until unconsciousness, danced until they bled and fucked until exhaustation, this too was a benighted understatement.

As a restless, I thought human complexity could only be understood when darkness came and all preconceptions were burnt to the root, where there was no love and god’s slogan had zero effect: misery.

I witnessed how times changed the orientation but not the origin, the desire of enslaving each other, the undying wish to rule everything but oneself. Amused on how little men acquired massive acceptation among its equals, how being ruled by a stranger was more favorable than not being ruled at all!

Thus generations gained a name, characteristics, and antecedents; humanity was not only singularized in words, but also considered, according to the time they were born, as individuals. Millions of people born on the age of war will remain in the after-math as a singular description: fanatic.

I chose to believe in the only proved truth: this too shall pass, regardless of the fact that there isn’t such an established sequence of events to assume that.

 ‹‹ touch ››

everything under your fingertips

is now you ,

all of the accumulated dust

throughout time,

time itself,

matter.

Your DNA has become more crowded

but less complex,

filled with familiar weaves,

with the sourness of dependence

and the relieve in standardization.

at a microscopic level

the worn-out furniture transforms,

into a still representation

of your existence,

“a continuous apathy towards the spotlight”.

you lean forward,

dragging everything with you,

a massive dance no one contemplates

properly without wondering

how an universe could

be tainted by the circles and lines

on the palm of your hands.

  the universe bends whenever

the fingers reach your mouth

to cover it as you smile.

  whenever your fingerprints

are impressed on

your eyes,

foot,

teeth,

you are being impregnated

by billions of years

of expansion,

of superstitions.

and that’s how you live,

transforming each one of

the things at the reach of

your fingers in a record

of intermittent legacies,

broken pacts

and noteless assets.

you pledged allegiance to your obstinacy, insisting on honey that the bees could not produce, amused by how your heart didn't cringe at the idea of a life with no edible luxury goods.

and what did you learn? maybe that wanting something was not enough to get it, that "very much" is not an indicator, and repeating it won't add any more value than the one we know about: self worth.

— an introduction to the free market system. 

¿en qué se piensa cuando se piensa en el amor? en el cabello que un bebé aún no muda, terso, frondoso, débil.

Puede ser en un postre francés unas crepas después del almuerzo, un café.

¿en arder? No, porque eso se siente, cuando uno piensa en el amor uno acomoda los ejemplos, establece rangos, métricas.

cuando uno piensa en el amor, uno no siente.

Si se pudiese palpar un abstracto probablemente sería como una tormenta de alta mar, de un segundo a milisegundo la proa es menos madera y más olas, y tú, sin poder escapar al día, sin haber topado el agua, sientes que te falta el oxígeno y te preparas para vivir muriéndote, inhalar la sal, expirar la rebeldía abrazar la desorientación, qué más da.

Te imaginas en lugares, quizás en una isla cercana que no habías visto por la oscuridad.

pero yo cuando pienso en el amor, siento, el olor mixto de mi postre favorito en el horno a punto de achicharrarse por descuido, delicado y purulento; la efervescencia del desinfectante sobre un rasguño en mi mano, todas las historias y ninguna. 

cuando siento al amor, yo pienso, para no dejar nada de mí al agraz, para tener un disgusto de reserva mientras las flores no pasen de temporada, para no sucumbir ante el estupor porque quien parecía ser, no era.

para desentenderme un poco del cariño, y su guerra con lo de fuera, y su confusión con lo de dentro.

al trágico Caribe sólo lo representan las palmeras y la infamia, se dice, se rumora.

correteando desde su libertad hacia su desgracia sin derramar una gota de sudor, consumiendo la sangre de los guerrilleros y alimentándose de la estética en la opresión, se cree que esa estética no es más que un uso desmedido de la moral (porque escandaliza) y desnudarse en la oscuridad (porque está prohibido).

al Caribe le sobran las manos duras de la historia y le falta la suavidad de la duda, el hueco de un signo que no exclame, que cuestione, quiere un escape de la sal del mar taíno, esa que preserva en los barquitos pesqueros los genes de los ancestros africanos, cimarrones e indómitos.

el que parte del Caribe sin un discurso plural, contradictorio y debatible, no escapa, el que parte de la melanina y el rizo, sólo sucumbe a la geografía.

es muy tarde para las postales, las de los tablones en la orilla, lo incoloro del agua en las playas y las de las hembras bravas; es muy temprano para asesinar los rituales mágicos de los que viven en el borde, al Caribe ya le cabe un epitafio, se piensa, al Caribe lo maldijo un caribeño, se acuerda.

ring … ring... ring

A routine, a tiresomeness with no known source, a job designed by higher creatures with glue in their fingers and speeches on their tongues, how does it work?

Silence and a mysterious aura of unresolved murders inundated the apartment, I couldn't help but shake at an ungodly speed, couldn't control it, there was neither a touch nor a warning on the speaker so I calmly embraced the waves produced by the recorder whenever it announced a new (dismissed) message, this time we had a cheerful grandmother Sophia singing to Laura a Happy Birthday song.

The cold housing snitched the season. It was winter, I knew it because people called others a lot during winter, just to avoid the news that some relatives committed suicide, or to feel less guilty if they decided to do so.

ring after ring Laura touched me, Laura shivered, at this point the purpose of my functions was fuzzy, was she the one transmitting the information or was it me?

She patiently awaited in the sofa for me to pursue the last oscillations, the warning sounds of whoever wanted to communicate something to her, and then, when I muted, she walked towards the table and lifted me, leaving traces of her vintners fingers on my speaker.

| no answer, silence, she went back to her seat.

How bizarre was the game she played. I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I've been noisy at this place for a year now and my unused wires and polymeric housing could easily pass by new. Thereby, I tried to play her game, I decided to not ring ever again; to hush the first words of a baby/ jazz soft tones/ the slightly out of tune songs of the mockingbirds near home/ the abetment between two old loves.

A revolt that ended everything for me, next thing I hear is Laura negotiating my price with a local mercantile based on my use, which was none. She sold me for 5 dollars, obeying the instructions of the manual, the one designed by the creatures with glue in their hands and speeches in their tongues, the one she was supposed to overlook.