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'description of sentiments'

axioms form our understandings
life didn't give itself to our bodies with
an explanation therefore we the humans
search search we search
but never find because of this we invent
systems of solace the temples of philosophy
with a supernatural marble there is no happiness
there is no hatred there is no love these things are stars
of alien fire waterfalls of water and emerald mountains
of silvery moonlight earth of plasmic marshes coldness of the
isolated rivers fields of the postmodernist art welcome
to the indescribable sensations of the war of that war which is
called happiness hatred love existence death life . . .
 

'consciousness'

consciousness runs over the polished stones of my being
and i feel my immense existence contradict everything
that i am everything that i want to be everything that i can see
within me there is a museum of picturesque landscapes
falling away into the primordial dust of post-impressionism
poetic words hover through the panoramic periphery
of my twisted emotions i paint with letters handsome
shapes fortify a universe of my conception
monet kandinsky van gogh magritte kahlo the graceful art
that is within the human brain i remain in a cézannian
silence and perceive so many complicated colors so many
indescribable inexplicable intrinsically imposing
emotions one day i will disappear dissipate sleep
forever but for now i love what I see there
on the boundaries of my being in the darkest dreams
in the most brilliant stars it is my consciousness
 

'The Caribbean Immigrant'

The son of the islands walks through the city
Persecuted by the vanity of society
In every corner. Black eyes in the corners.
The men don't speak. They watch. The clandestine life
Of a hungry immigrant. In the wealthiest city
The immigrant continues without salvation. My son chews
An old gum of venomous tobacco and remembers the magnificent
Sluggishness of a world without rush. Tearful son. The equality
Of being poor between palm trees and the buzzing of the hummingbird. Dull air
Of the decrepit tropics. He has faith. I don't have faith. He drinks. I don't drink
But I am his son and his brother and his father and together we shall perish
In the exactitude of communal death. We shall return to some African countryside
From the infancy of our species. I am listening to a jazz musician and I think. We shall overcome!
We have the fatherland of losing a fatherland. We have the death of the martyr. A couple of distracted
Citizens push through the warm alleyways but we stroll through the eye of God . . .
 

'Man'

Man was born with weapons in hand
And this was how he created this desolation.
He invented the Devil to seduce woman
And God to defend any war.
 
Man rendered colors into weapons
Crosses into fire, broken souls, punishments, and alarms.
Man was born free to make others slaves
And to transform the flowers into symbols of death and carnations.
 
Man saw the graceful heights of the mountains
And decided to construct with the dexterity of spiders.
Man detested the pure beauty of nature all around
And made a plague of dust to prove himself emperor.
 
Man didn't like the communist world
And synthesized a new system for the elitists.
Man didn't like equality or freedom
And sought another way to live, called stability.
 
Every man has a master which is another man.
How these men kill! How these men eat!
There isn't anything on this poor Earth that can defend itself from the fire, from the metal!
There is nothing else on this Earth now but this permanent and hellish state!
 
Man established the banks, the stores, the advertisements, and the money
To monetize nature, the world, the experiences, and the abundance of pine trees.
This gave humanity a new reason for weeping, another option, the most perfect complaint.
Despite causing so much pain men love this elaborate excuse and now it delights them.
 
And now I ask myself why I was born a man also . . .
After thinking a lot I have guessed that I know what is my disdain.
It's because I write and while I write I pretend and while I pretend I lie
And while I lie nothing improves. I complain while the world grows hungry!
 

'In search of souls'

My soul is a warehouse. He is full of memories that I cannot remember.
I only know that I have these emotions because I act. I act irrationally
And at times I hate beautiful things and love ugly things. I cannot. I come from the beautiful
Field. I come from silk. I come from the son of the ninth son. I come from the branches.
All of these are my surnames. The principal problem is that I have many souls
And only one warehouse. The warehouse overflows with the bustle of my soul. I can be playing
A little game of chess. I can be drinking a little bit of tea. I can be attending
A wake. The other souls are jealous. Ramos? But why? We are more attractive.
You can hide many things this way. You can hide the truth. You can live in the light of
Darkness. This prohibited light is so beautiful. And I debate. Schizophrenia dwells in my family
But I cannot resist. The argument rises. It rises like the heater. And the arguments
Become more fatalist. With so many souls you cannot die. It is impossible. I am lost
In the warehouse between the wheat and the corn and I forget who I am. People never will tell you the
Truth. The truth is very easy. We need to invite industrial stories. We need
To rhyme and capture the butterflies. In a bed of birdseed I dream. Synesthesia accompanies me.
I contradicted while I corrected because my souls are deceptions . . . When the gloom
Of midnight falls around the confines of my warehouse I cannot see myself. In my
Blind obstinacy I only follow the beats of my heart. They form a music of such elegant
Equations and I lose myself in a world of nostalgias. The soul cannot be classified.
You can classify each little detail of the physiognomy but the visage is not in the details.
The visage is in the body. You need to have a visage to examine another visage and therefore
Yo need a soul to examine another soul. Yet when I examine my soul I don't have a soul!
I am an ephemeral equivalence and I return to life with pressing doubts. I need another soul.
All the souls that I have are mistakes and contradictions. I need a real
Soul. Could it be that we need love? Could it be that love is the solution?
I don't know. I'm still busy with the innumerable numbers that invade my skull . . .
 

'My encounter with peace'

There was a terrible war in the ancient field.
All the men fought in it with pride.
But I didn't fight in the war. I don't fight.
We are all children and existence is beautiful.
I don't need to explain myself. Observe. I don't
Use massive words because I want
To tell you the truth. I'm in a hurry. Brother
Or sister, war is a bad thing. The mere power
Of the thought of war is so base and hateful.
I don't know who taught you, humans,
Such an absurd thing. The handsome effort
Of nature kills but never hates. The beauteous
Plan of humanity was not to kill. To love.
When my people won their war
In the field I fled from them. I fled to the mountain ranges.
They followed. They arrived with oil and fire
And burned everything here. In those rivers I drown
Now. In those rivers of fire. Call me!
Someone calls me! And says . . . I love you . . .
My son . . . I love you . . . I am your friend
I am in everything. In the bowler hat. In the ant.
They call me peace. I am1 but I never am2 . . .
 

• 1. estar - temporary
• 2. ser - permanent

'Lived'

Do I love life or do I detest life? I don't know . . .
I only know that I live her as she is. I recently
Began to realize that that is something natural.
Forces are neutral things. The social hierarchy
Is ugly and beautiful for all people. No one can
Change place but they all have a marvelous
Stability that is the place. That is life and its truth.
Death and life are the same woman in different clothes.
I recognize that I am good person when I am not a bad
Person. That is life. That is the road. After the rain the road is milky like a tooth
Of an infant and shines with unavoidable mud. But I love the rain. I love how the humidity
Flies through the air and perforates the young skin in the dark dawn. We have rain
Because that is the intention of the clouds. Life is the intention of water and of fire. The glove
That is the graceful elegant of serene beings is my love. I await the day when I see you,
Mother Life, with ancient reverence after the loving knowledge, your misunderstood face,
Death. You are poor and deformed and sick . . . You are a painful damnation. But I desire you.
I desire you as you are. I shall not kill myself. That is too easy . . . Instead, I accept your due wound.
 

“Every kind of war for independence”

I stimulate the shapes of my starry dreams
Into the essence of our lives. I dismantle the family
Of broken words in the coffin. Above the death of a nation
I pass for you and your nobility. In white papyrus the investigation
Of your magnanimity continues without fruit. Old
And tired I walk without a compass. A new attack
Arises into my confused heart and then I judge there:
I have an independent indefatigable incorruptible soul. To you
I shall give nothing and from you I take nothing. An indescribable history
Sleeps before me. My indomitable unbreakable uncertainty
Stands as it is because I love, I live, and I am as I am without anything else.
 

'My Motive'

I am on the edge of the infinite sea and I do not have hope
Of crossing this precipice. I look with fear of this inheritance
Of writer. Guajira and Tango are playing in the background, in the air! Golden
And green island ornamented with a loving fire. A bee
Of graceful divinity buzzes within you. My word is not
Enriching your wrathful face and the face of inescapable destiny. Now I am
Making a demand to the wind and water and earth and mountain of my
Other life of my ancient forgotten memories! I need your
Company in order to see myself as I am without the strange gaze of a
Foreigner. You are who only is1 without more and only you can
Enlighten me. You are the most astonishing mystery that is. You are . . .
 

• 1. temporarily

'The True Revelation'

I am searching for the necessary words
To describe you. I don't even know who I am
And why I am . . . That's why you torture,
Complicate, destroy, and annul everything that I have.
Because I don't even know what I have. And because of this,
I cannot defend myself from you, elegant
Swordsman. The graceful air that you have eludes me
And envelops me at the same time. I cannot
Describe your encrypted visage. Behind that
Immaculate image you watch me in rage.
You are an incorrect emotion, an irrational
Identity, the dizzy buzzing of a venomous
Wasp. Give it to me! The truth. Do not give me
The suffocating ashes of the future! I do not want
This pragmatic dust of history. Give me
The rage of the violent volcano. I want to investigate
Existence as it is. Don't be demands
Or artifices or unseen moons of silver.
Reveal your form and it doesn't matter if I
Shall die of the full power of your divinity
Because it's worth the effort! It's worth the effort! It's worth . . .
Thank you for enlightening me. Completing me.
Simplifying me. Saving me. I shall never have
Fear or hunger or pain. I have you in my
hand . . . in my chest . . . in the steps of
My childhood . . . You are the truth. The truth
Is fatalistic. The truth is in death . . .
And now that I speak of truth . . . Death is
Here . . .
 

'Old Age'

He awakes in the morning from a beautiful dream with a pain in his knees.
He puts on some poor slippers and prepares himself a small cup of black coffee.
In the reflection of the small plate he sees himself as he is: tired and old.
Drinking his hot drink he remembers his little brother.
The African samba of his memories already seems to him like a meddlesome fellow.
The aspirations of his ancient soul already seem petty to him.
The old man only wants to live simple now, like the rabbit.
 

'The Chess Player'

He is like an uncle. He is a boy and a man. He is the chess player.
I didn't meet hypocrisy in politicians. Instead I met this anarchist . . .
An anarchist that knows how to protect his king with the statist force
Of his queen. He does not believe in the left or in the right. He is an immigrant
And he is a father but he has no fatherland nor love. He is not a militant hero
Nor does he have a sophisticated ideology. He has no house. He has a wandering certainty:
Not knowing always living crying seeing sweating. Spanish or English?
He doesn't speak. He moves his hand and kills my pawn with a peasant's determination.
He is not a citizen but he dominates my city. - Sir, I hope that you give
This poor young man a chance - I ask him for a little bit of humanity
But he has already forgotten his pity. He has no soul when he plays. The blind
impulsiveness of the hollow competition usurps his hatred for order and he renders himself a municipality
Of his starved instincts. But this hypocrisy is beautiful . . . Hypocrisy is the fact, de facto . . .
The saddest poetry that exists . . .
 

'Introspection'

Who am I but merely a man with memories
And foreign convictions and a perplexed soul?
We are the same shadow. With our daily
wanderings and particular problems. The complex face
Is the face that is as it is without being bewitched with makeup,
Grimaces, or old phantoms. The cessation of love and of war
Is such a simple thing to perceive. It is not a drought
But rather the nonsense that we live day by day on this Earth.
We are as we live. We aren't voices nor figures nor visions.
We are not even our missions or decisions. We are the intentions
And actions that we have created in raw times. There isn't a rhyme to
Describe the beauty that dwells in the concrete truth of the body and of the face
But there are eyes to see it as it is: natural like the winter or the thatch.
 

The poor psychopathic child who steals

The poor psychopathic child who steals
Observed the sophistication of the mahogany
And thought - Now I know why I am a psychopath!
Because this society pays me more as an autocrat . . .