15 Thursday Nov 2012
Tags
I can draw out the rainy
season that sleeps
inside you.
I know ju ju.
When I found you,
you were dry earth
cracked, you were
rising August dust.
Not all soil is fertile.
Not all soft flesh panics.
The rain does not care
if it evaporates
or sinks deep inside you,
it just keeps on falling.
But I am not the rain.
I want you wet.
I want you soaked.
Like an old-time prophet
I’m going to run wild
in your wild bush.
I’m going to speak
in tongues until
your swampland floods.
14 Wednesday Nov 2012
Tags
contemplation
I am
not yours,
though you are
still living
inside me.
Hiding.
Like grief.
There is no
healing
from grief.
It’s not
a gunshot wound,
leaving behind
tell-tale scars.
It’s not
a cancer,
though I have
been carrying you
around long enough.
No doctor
can cut it
out of me.
No knife
can find it,
though one day
you will consume
me. You are
consuming me.
Because
like all good cancers
you simply confirm
what is worst
in me and
how poor
I am
in making
choices.
31 Wednesday Oct 2012
Posted in Humor
≈ Comments Off on the matrix: alternative ending
Tags
the matrix: alternative ending
27 Saturday Oct 2012
Tags
nina as high priestess
17 Wednesday Oct 2012
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on a drowning child
Todo lo que estoy
diciendo. Un ahogamiento
niño. Algas.
Mis piernas.
Arrastrando
tu muchacho
debajo. Me encanta
el pánico
en tus ojos.
Mírame
desaparecer.
(All I’m saying. A drowning child. Sea weed. My legs. Dragging your boy underneath. I love the panic in your eyes. Watch me disappear)
24 Monday Sep 2012
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on un santo italiano hueso del muslo
Yo soy
un objeto
vulgar que desea
consumir
a cualquier precio.
Un santo italiano
hueso del muslo.
Yo soy lleno
de cosas nuevas,
pero no para usted.
Hay estrellas
en mi boca .
(I am a vulgar object you want to consume at any cost. An Italian saint’s thighbone. I am full of new things, but not for you. There are stars in my mouth)
19 Wednesday Sep 2012
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on barcos en el mar
Tags
age difference, blow job, incest, mother-son, ocean, Spanish, translation
Que todos tenemos
nuestros barcos en el mar.
Nosotros les enviamos
a través de las profundidades.
Como el deseo.
Algunos han cruzado la marea.
Algunos son desmanteladas.
Otros están perdidos
en una noche sin estrellas.
Érase una vez, usted navegó
a tierras extranjeras.
Yo odio tu indiferencia.
No hay cartas que ha enviado
desde cualquier puerto.
¿Cree que es inteligente?
Soy una bruja que puede
superar el viento.
(We all have our ships at sea. We send them across the depths. Like desire. Some have crossed the tide. Some are dismantled. Others are lost in a starless night. Once upon a time you sailed to foreign lands. I hate your indifference. No letters sent from any port. Do you think that’s clever? I’m a witch who can overcome the wind.)
18 Tuesday Sep 2012
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on mi madre regalo
¿Qué era el regalo
de mi padre a mí?
Palabras.
¿Pero esto?
Con el regalo
de mi madre
voy a quemar
el mundo abajo .
(What was my father’s gift to me? Words. But this? With the gift of my mother I will burn the world down.)
18 Tuesday Sep 2012
Posted in Passings and Death Notes
≈ Comments Off on louis simpson dies at 89
As the BBC noted:
Louis Simpson, a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet whose work often explored the darker side of life in the US suburbs, has died at his New York home aged 89.
Born in Jamaica in March 1923, Simpson – the son of a Russian mother and a lawyer of Scottish descent – moved to the US at the age of 17.
The Columbia University graduate published more than 18 books of poetry.
He won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1964 for his fourth collection At the End of the Open Road.
Its title was inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem Song of the Open Road, which presented a vision of America replete with optimism and potential.
The collection contained the short poem In the Suburbs, in which he offered the bleaker suggestion that there was “no way out” for those “born to this middleclass life”.
His admirers included such writers as Seamus Heaney and William Matthews. In an interview with the BBC News website in 2007, poet Sean O’Brien described Simpson’s work To The Western World as “a wonderful, elegiac political poem about possibility”.
Simpson, who served in World War II with the 101st Airborne Division, lived for many years in Setauket, New York on the north shore of Long Island.
His final collection Struggling Times was published in 2009 by BOA Editions and dealt directly with his old age and declining health.
Speaking on Tuesday, BOA Editions publisher Peter Conners remembered Simpson as a man who “chronicled his life through his literature”.
18 Tuesday Sep 2012
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on esta muertos marea baja
Tags
beach, lechuga de mar, low tide, ocean, Spanish, translation
Esta muertos
marea baja.
Yo he sido vagando
esta costa para siempre.
El grito de las aves
vivas en las dunas.
Un resplandor silenciado.
La playa. La madera
de deriva. La lechuga
de mar reseco.
Este dolor es amplia
y solitaria. Y yo
también lo soy.
(This dead low tide. I’ve been wandering this coast forever. The cry of the birds living in the dunes. A muted glow. The beach. The driftwood. The withered sea lettuce. This pain is broad and solitary. And I am too.)
memories of my ghost sista 