the biblical sense of to know
born in a summer that never existed
nailed to the cross of your poems
I’m losing my mind inside the blue night
I reach you in dreams you do not understand
It hurts when I’m there
It hurts when I’m not
I ask for the help gravediggers can grant
I wrote I love you on a note that I locked
It wasn’t a snake, it was an iguana
the night the tango nuevo played its guitar
on fifteen decades you counted your prayers
my fingers were naked
my fingers were gloved
Our destinies caught inside the lines of my left palm.
With my right index finger, I trace those lines again and again, until I cannot breathe anymore, until my left palm bleeds.
None of us can be judged outside endless flights between continents, outside of our tears and of our love for art, outside of the slippery slope that runs from amitié amoureuse to deep impassioned love.
One day all of us will have to understand that the past should stay in the past.
That day is inscribed in my left palm together with our pain, and our tendencies toward the kind of love that transcends earthly boundaries.
you do not know how many countries I have traveled how many marvels I have shown myself the names of the dead I’ve resurrected my victims’ kisses buried in a pink conch shell inside the whispers of the messianic Nazareth He who knew of His crucifixion picked up my tears broke the bread so I could lock the memory of my first kiss inside the rocks of the eternal Spanish Steps and walk again through fields of roses and lavender into gestating dreams of no constraints
yet see, all that happened before the day you came into my life the day when all the fallen saints with their fingers stretched the sky so we could have one single hour just for ourselves
first published September 22, 2019 (text slightly modified)
Vita Brevis just published Pain & Renewal: A Poetry Anthology. I have two poems included: The Dark Flag of Pain and Autumn Healing.
“Pain & Renewal features a collection of incredible voices — from Pulitzer and Pushcart prize winners to brand new poets, it’s filled with moving poetry about the highs and lows of the human experience.”
I lurked in the shadows of those streets the entire night: solitaries, madmen, prostitutes, somnambulists. After a while I couldn’t distinguish among them.
My steps were meaningless. My senses were tranquilized by that vision of him scribbling his last letter to me under a pale winter moon. The child was probably happy, playing at his feet. It wasn’t his child, but…
The beat of the streets became one with the unstoppable movements of his heart in my own chest. He left his love to me like some kind of inheritance.
Why retreat alone with the child on a remote island?
Afterall the city did not do more than compromise the least part of him: his ego.
Blood is dateless. The ego is not. Which part did he not understand?
with this ring I promise you I will erase the shadows of the slave trade locked in the heat of samba in the nights of carnival coins put on the eyes of dead at funerals -forgotten tickets of the unforgotten..
In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world. Federico García Lorca
open your veins Andalusia let him drink from your lynx blood inject the rhythms of the flamenco under the coldness of his eyes tattoo his flesh with tiles of azurite pour the sounds of castanets into his arms my fingers swirl the flesh of ripened olives covers the old shroud the flow of blood from the white shirt has stopped I hear his voice there is one cross and you’re my only love my body arches oils flame in my hair a Moorish verse falls from a wall covering my cries
Andalusia I kneel among your cacti fed by salt your wounded lashes resurrected him for yet another night