Corrientes

Apenas te conozco pero ya me lees de memoria.
Encuentras mis tempestades internas
y las conviertes en aguas quietas por instantes
a pesar de que el mar revuelve en mí inconforme curiosidad.

Leemos esta historia a medida que la vamos escribiendo,
y tengo miedo
porque estoy acostumbrada a saber qué contiene la siguiente página.

Me faltan dos años para dos décadas y hasta ahora el tiempo solo ha sido tiempo. No sé cómo vivir y por eso lo hago rápido. Por eso busco y creo respuestas insaciablemente, por eso ignoro el valor de la incertidumbre. Por eso para mí la palabra amor era sinónimo de un infinito incondicional. En cortos días, como tú los llamas, todo esto ha cambiado. Ahora el amor lo siento instantáneo, lo siento más valioso, lo siento ahora, lo siento más real.

Porque solo tú ves ojos rojos donde los demás los ven cafés.
Porque escucho tu voz entre mi oreja y mi cuello y me siento amartelada.

Contigo no sé muchas cosas
Pero siento que está bien no saber.

Sin miedo y con tranquilidad acepto que somos tú y yo,
solo tú y yo y nadie más.

Parménides dice que el río sigue siendo río a pesar de las nuevas corrientes. A diferencia de antes, ahora no le veo nada de malo. Amo tu río, amo sus aguas, las contaminadas, las puras, incluso las que ya han pasado.

El resto de mi respuesta es solo el silencio que producen en mí tus palabras. Un silencio que no conocía, un silencio que solo sé definir como la connotación que tiene Buenos Aires para mí.

Penélope

Esta vez fue Penélope la que se marchó. Pero sigue siendo ella la que teje y desteje con hilo negro las horas del día, tratando de hacerlas desaparecer. Se confunde. Descubre la luna llena escondiéndose detrás de su ventana y cree firmemente que Odiseo está con ella. Ausente. Sonríe, sin razón aparente, mientras trata de desenredar y diferenciar los recuerdos vividos de los imaginados. Suspira y piensa que no importa, porque al fin y al cabo, todos los recuerdos son inventados. Sin embargo, sigue tratando de separarlos porque le parece imposible, imposible que la realidad intocable haya sido tan perfecta. Se siente borracha entre deseos e ilusiones atados por el tiempo. Quiere borrar este concepto porque es el culpable de su estado. Trata de aferrarse a cosas pequeñas, a palabras que pesan tanto, a melodías que la hacen sentir ligera. Cada cuarenta y ocho horas lo siente más cerca que nunca pero no logra sentirse completa.


Y de esta manera, Penélope soporta quien sabe cuánto tiempo. Enredando el hilo negro apropósito, esperando que Odiseo vuelva, o tal vez, que ella vuelva a él para coser nuevamente cualquier artefacto que necesite reparo.

Ella me da miedo

Vi lo que le escribiste y entiendo un poco más la razón por la cual tus ojos sonríen tristes. Le escribiste a ella, a la de siempre. A ella, ella, ella, la primera, y me siento pasajera. Me pregunto cuántas veces le dijiste te amo. Siento que me lo dijiste con miedo, como si la estuvieras traicionando. No puedo evitar compararme a ella, porque vi fotos y sé que recorriste la ciudad de su mano. Y después ella se fue. Y ahora yo me estoy yendo y me dices que me ves en las calles. ¿La veías a ella? ¿La ves todavía? ¿La viste alguna vez cuando recorríamos la ciudad, cogidos de la mano?

Fuiste a un río con ella. Tal vez caminaron por el mismo parque, tal vez la acariciabas de igual manera. Tal vez ella y yo tenemos todos los recuerdos compartidos. Tal vez los sigamos compartiendo.

y me da miedo no estar. La soledad trae consigo recuerdos guardados que me da miedo que visites.
pudiste estar sin ella cuando estabas conmigo
¿pudiste?

yo sentí mucho contigo de lo que le escribiste a ella

siento que todo lo que hice, lo hizo ella primero
lo sé.
es inevitable porque contigo, ella hizo todo.
para ti ella es todo.

No estoy celosa
solo me siento pasajera.

Babel, Self-Inflicted

There was a time when words weren't enough. Men and women's thoughts and ideas were limited by a handful of useless words. This restricted authors and playwriters. Among these unsatisfied Creators was a man. A man with a half-naked head known today as the greatest writer in The English Language.
Now, don't be decieved by him. You praise him now for his worthy poems, plays, and sonnets but that's not the real reason why he became so well-knowned. His intimidating last name, which we all struggled with in middle school, would only be a difficult word to spell if he had not been such an arrogant rebel. The English Language
had nothing more than simple words to offer him, so instead of succumbing to this mediocre set of words, he started creating his own. This man thought he was special enough to create a new version of The English Language,
and apparently, he was. He invented words like "amazement", "bloody", "critical" and "obscene" and people actually started using them. This event marked the beginning of the destruction of language as a form of communication. Other authors started feeling special too, so words like "dinner-party" and "nerd" became part of the English dictionary. Then, people who weren't writers, but still were pretty influential in other people's lives, took it to another level and started creating phrases like "Google it," "tag me in a photo," and "bbm me real quick". This wasn't a problem until random people started feeling plaetible enough to create their words too, words others felt they had no reason to adopt. So this is how language
started
stretching
like
a
rubber
band.
People would debate whether a sandwich was antripomorphic or dublainic. Couples would fight about what language their children would learn. Kids would grow up with a weird mix of idioms they'd soon discard and replace with their own. People refused to communicate, nations fell apart, civilizations became caddlements of recawing stahiments. Whantimate laopar esh tricane of mantamere and staegells dedophin to drestued oklitno was gatn.

This is how the rubber band broke.

Cold Coffee And A Piece Of Blueberry Pie

She arrives before me p.m.
and leaves after I do a.m.,
Leaving a bathtub-sized child at home
with an open children's book on his chest,
Or a weary husband who still doesn't know what to do with his life, sleeping with the T.V on.

I like to go to the airport to see the travelers.
The busy travelers with black suitcases,
The young travelers with no suitcases,
The one’s that have done it a thousand times,
The virgins.

She isn't there to catch a flight,
Her feet have always been on the floor
You can tell, by her sad eyes,
and by that theatrical smile she makes her lips put on with
so,
much,
struggle.

Her appearance is dull,
I feel I could easily erase her.
I look at her old-white apron,
Her mind's probably filled with colors.

I open my wallet and look for the biggest bill
I can find, a 20.
I place it besides the now cold coffee and blueberry pie
I ask for every day
and leave.

About Words

I love words
because they need me
so I can use them
as doors to say
whatever the fuck I want.

Untitled III

it started out as a win-win situation,
a healthy competition to see who
could please the other one better,

it started out with “may I’s” and “do you mind’s”
but as carnal desires increase
politeness dissipates.

and now you’re in me
but you’re not into me,
you love what I do,
but not who I am.

and we find ourselves,
suspended in the situation,
breathing the misinterpretation of intertwined fingers
wondering if our intentions are still mutual
or if they have drifted, become something more.

I wonder whether you sense anything behind my smile,
I worry that you see the lie that hides from you
when I say I’m not falling

when I say I need to be touched
when I really want to be held,

Macrosmatic

it smelled of inner thighs,
of scratched skin,
of warm things

it smelled of anxious mouths not knowing where to kiss first,
of arms wishing they had more hands
and hands wishing they had more fingers

it smelled of pungent, mixing fluids
of chemistry and biology,
of evaporating sweat

it smelled of throats, swelling up, getting ready to scream.
it smelled of faint groans and high pitched sighs,
of saliva, meeting saliva,
of intense stimulation,
of euphoria at its maximum

it smelled of insane pleasure
coming out of every single pore of our skin,
flooding air particles,
making us high.

Stay With Her

Stay with her.
Trust her
As much as you didn’t trust me.
Look at her
With eyes, somewhat familiar.
Believe her tears,
But don’t believe the words she says to others.
Hold her hand,
But don’t ask her where it’s been.
Cry for her and because of her,
And then act like if you didn’t.
Stay with her.
Because you are her
and I am you in us.

And I would stay with you.

Synesthesia

Words that taste red, Vowels, that drop from our mouths, Like the sweat dropping from our skin. Kisses that smell like fine meat and lips that enjoy this taste. I listen to your eyes, and respond with my hands. I touch your petitions and fulfill them willingly. -sensory overload.

Untitled II

i kiss you and feel guilty
so i kiss you again and feel stupid
and i do it once more and feel sorry
for myself but i kiss you again because
i’m hoping that your desires
will turn into my feelings.

Untitled

Two eyes that speak, a mouth that answers.
A hand that looks and finds another hand.
A smile that sparks another smile,
A kiss that interrupts the one before.

Hands

the tapping of ten bony feet which all look the same. With royal blue cap sized shoes, with little cuts made by teeth, products of long, nervous thoughts. A positive correlation between the loudness of a tapping and the intensity of an idea they hop and dance without ever touching can’t you hear them tapping on the square black tiles? tap, tap, tap

Unlearn

I learned to love him.  
I learned to feel that extra gush of blood
Flow through my body when I saw his face. 
I didn't like his smell or think his smile was charming,
Or daydream with days to come, when waking up besides 
his tender smile was life. 
I learned to love him, love him plenty, love him fully, 
unconditionally.
I learned to love what I was supposed to love
and what I wasn't. 
The gap between his two front teeth, 
the dent of skin in his upper left arm
which made me feel like he was mine, 
the freckles on his neck that grew with the sun 
and his hands, which learned to intertwine
with small and thinner hands,
with my hands.
I learned to love the words he wrote,
The words that only I had permission to read.  
I learned to love the words he spoke when we were alone 
and learned to miss them when we were not.
I learned, I learned, I learned,
Then one day, I stopped learning.
And the extra gush of blood came automatically with his presence,
with his smell, with his every move. 
I stopped learning and he stopped loving. 
I started cherishing and he started forgetting. 
I tried to forget too but it was useless.
How could I forget something I had learned so well? 
He loved and forgot because you can forget feelings. 
They vanish like the day does with the sunset
when night approaches the land and overwhelms it
but doesn't hurt it.
Ask me to forget how to love you, so abruptly, so crudely 
And I'll respond
Try to forget that one plus one is two.

Honda

I
Escribo para recordar,
recuerdo para no olvidar
aquella palma larga y doblada,
muy vieja para producir cocos ricos en carne blanca y leche tibia.
Por favor no la corten.
Que siga creciendo y creciendo,
que toque el cielo y lo conecte con esta tierra
tierra en la cual se recuerda para no olvidar,
se escribe para recordar.

II
No corten el árbol de mangos
donde el abuelo colgaba su hamaca
y tomaba la siesta.
El patio es el único lugar de la casa
donde es fresco, donde el aire no pesa nada.

No corten los árboles,
No corten la palma,
No corten el árbol de mangos,
¿De donde sacarán las frutas para el jugo?

III
El puente mal situado
de hierro ya oxidado
cuenta historias de hombres
quienes han entregado sus vidas
al infierno de agua fría, abajo.

Y subía una calle larga y empinada,
y luego volteaba a mano derecha.

y ahí estaba la calle.

Donde todas las familias salían para celebrar el año nuevo.
Todas las familias, sentados en circulo tomando,
con las uvas a un lado,
esperando esa otra oportunidad anhelada
para poder volver a empezar.




IV
La casa, se ve chiquita al lado de sus dos vecinas.
Su fachada es fea, sin color, es de piedra gris opaca.
La puerta es blanca de metal y está un poco dañada,
los vidrios tienen remiendos de historias ya olvidadas.
Es humilde la casa de Honda.
Miramos por la ventana de la izquierda,
esa que siempre está abierta
y gritamos- “Ya llegamos Marucha! Ábranos la puerta!”
y ella sale y nos saluda como a una tía,
y sin falta nos dice- como han crecido niñas!
y le preguntamos ¿Dónde está Lina?
y ella nos responde que está trabajando en la iglesia.

¡Ay Lina, como formas parte de esos recuerdos!
hace años cuando chiquitas pintabas con nosotros
y después te ibas al colegio en la noche,
nosotras nos quedábamos despiertas
para escuchar tus aventuras, que no eran mucha cosa
pero a uno cuando es chiquito, todo le parece mucha cosa.
Fuimos creciendo y ya no queríamos dibujar
y tu ya no ibas al colegio, ahora trabajabas.
Esas historias ya no nos importaban
porque nuestras historias se volvieron más interesantes que las tuyas.

V
En la esquina de la calle,
al lado del río
también se sentía el viento acariciar el cuerpo,
como en el patio de la casa.

VI
Las mañanas en Honda eran repetitivas.
Cuando el aire del ventilador ya no se sentía
Y no cabía más calor en el cuarto,
Se escuchaba la música del abuelo
Lloran, lloran los Guaduales.
Era música escrita por poetas
tristes que cantaban para recordar.
Sus historias inmortalizadas en la música.