Enjoy the distance

The routine has begun: school, nonstop work, the wake up early in the morning and force shit out. Things never uncomplicate themselves. They just get worse and worse, deeper into the rut. Is there still a chance for me to climb out?

Everything sucks, especially connections with those whom surround us.

Things don't seem to change. Back on square one, when I had told myself I never wanted to play games again.

More on Rey and me? I think Rey is of the most genuine people I've ever met. I think Rey feels the same as I do, in that context (but perception is all subjective and meant to be bullshit). I see a lot of myself in him, an older version, wearing the scars that I am soon and inevitably meant to accumulate.

Currently we are waiting for word from the publisher. Shit is ready to fly, from my understanding.


I see children who do not speak because they have nothing to say

We do not kiss because
what we have between us
is only time to waste

and to complete us and touch
would be of the utmost insignificance.

I do not want to see us ever again
as friends.

Next time we run into each other
we will yell and look the other way
as awkwardly as possible,
tell people how much we
hate Jesus Christ.

I want to be your lesbian lover,
wear you as a leash.

You’re kissing an uglier boy
with thicker glasses than mine;
his nose is more crooked than mine.

He is five-years-old and I stepped on his feet,
and he only mentioned that the streets weren’t straight
and then tried to bum a cigarette off me.

I will hug you before I leave never to see you again
because I was run over as I nodded off trying to beg for change
in the middle of a busy intersection en Santurce
that became a highway in a Chinese city.

That highway was built entirely out of rocks:
Chinese rocks.

I cherish my words and hold them tightly in my pocket.

How did I make it there if I am here,
with you holding your hand?

Asphalt Slaves

Born like this, into this…
Bukwosky


Here she comes: it is past five o’clock and she is not even capable of faking a smile. Her hands reveal the verge of a nervous breakdown. “I have a couple of tickets back to childhood,” I lie, sipping boring, black coffee. We already know the lies. There are no wings powerful enough that would allow us to cross each others' rivers, and caress those soon to be scars. Wounds made of routine, the good morning kiss goodbye, traffic jams, broken dreams, tormentas, men with empty souls offering rides to the early pleasure and unbelievable comfort - women, giving away plastic flowers out of windows of vehicles that still belong to the bank: the commute to the cubicle's inferno.

But then, it is five again. And as she lies her head on my shoulders, I dream about all the lies:
As if we knew all the lies.
As if we could share all the wounds.
We know this train is going to Humboldt Park (the guns – the gangs – the gongs)
We know there is no car
no boat
no train
no return

to childhood.

Conocer a Gustaff fue una bendición. Nos hablamos mientras andaba con la cabeza bien abajo, intentando grafitis en VSJ, tropezando con las mismas piedras, en fin, bien triste de olor a mar. Qué puedo decir? Janguear con este maldito loco me ha devuelto el gusano que se me revuelca por dentro. Compartimos la misma tristeza, la misma tinta,

"la tinta es la sangre de las palabras..."

Hablando de palabras, he aquí algunas sobre una de las novelas más importantes de la contemporaneidad literaria de esta prisa caribeña... para ver más sobre La muerte de mamá, el fetiche del hijo loco, Iván Silén, haga click acá...


hasta el próximo post.
r