Dofí

Sí, m'acompanyen dofins de present

sentit de foc, i a les ones turquesa

esmaperdut, jo mateix si de flama,

cresta escumosa, salto com cetaci;

duna d'arena, canvio les ombres

segons el riure del còsmic diví.

La pirula

Ja massa vella i marcada de tinta

fosca, sortosa o artista d'enganys

magnètics, em demana cada dia

més risc, l'interventor, la policia.

I no en té prou amb l'honrosíssim salt

de qui comença a colar-se amb felina

agilitat, quan el cos li demana

emocions, menyspreant l'enganxina

neta—l'enginy del pirulaire digne

que només vol que acabi bé el viatge.

Eddy

I’ve seen you

As a blue-lavender flower

Floating placidly

In an ancient eddy

Of spring runoff.

My benevolent, mossy roots surrounding

Your strength in beauty,

Our untold happiness of old,

Creating a circle of serene love,

Of wild growth,

Sunlight patches stroking

The subtle ripples

In everlasting motion.

This corner of the world

Belonged to us, long gone,

Recovered now, recognized.

Oh love through the ages,

Quiet flowing, peaceful

Joy in the meandering waves,

Let us sing and dance once more

Like we did when the world was unripe!

Laser

You pick a path, and suddenly, the choices

You held congeal into a moving ray

Determined by each point in space

Preceding its motion, eternally random

And gracious. This forward impulse

Becomes then its own reason, but really,

Only by looking back a pattern emerges

Out of the sweetly discrete stillness.

So the movement becomes meaning,

Unknowingly, unavoidably,

For how can we dare to stop for a second

And stare at the beauty all around us

When there's so much yet to accomplish?

But then, this goal-oriented approach

Only sort of makes sense when you take a sudden

Snapshot of it and declare it your happiness.

Or does it? In reality, the only bliss we can claim

Is that of this very instant, the moment of creation itself.

By then the moving laser is gone, piercing

The very fabric of our constant thoughts,

Unstoppable, freezing and sentient

As a bursting fountain of indomitable chaos.

Drizzle

When I was a kid, I remember my father

Going to the store with a thick wad of bills

And buying stuff left and right, improvising,

Giving in to the darkest urges of the consumer

Psyche and mythology that somehow convinces

Us all that gratification lies in the release and exchange of money

For shit.

I get the same urge now, my father dead and all,

The old bicycle he bought one day on a whim

Rusting away in the big dumping pile of useless

Memories. I get the urge to show the world

How fucking successful, how suave I am. What a fucking mover

And shaker I have become, lost in the lust

Of the present time. How incredibly crazy is all, congealing

Like a frozen mist that will never thaw. The fear of losing

That which can never be gained, or attained,

The chains that perpetuate the idiotic mirage

We all buy into, believing one thick wad of paper bills

Will provide the necessary happiness we think

Lies around the corner.

We do not own the present, or the past. The only

Kindness we know resides plainly in the crevices

Of our imagined dreams.

I, then, wanna dream my fears away,

Leaving the rest to rot like forgotten fridge foodstuff.

I want to forget the unnecessary societal roles I learned

From my father, and release the wildness locked inside

Like an endangered ape awaiting for the ultimate salvation. Like a jungle

Junkie getting soaked by the unending drizzle of time.

Quàntica

Què és un pas, si no l'ínfim manifest

de la indecisió que ens pot i ens venç

com ho faria sens dubte si volgués?

I qui voldria deturar-se en sec,

desaparèixer entre les boires molles

i l'atzar del morir? L'heroi, sens dubte,

però no el de la tele, preparat

per tota avinentesa, que un guió

li mostra el bon camí, ni el que ha triomfat,

empastifat del seu èxit lliscós,

que depèn del que en diuen i el que fan;

sinó l'heroi intrèpid i ferreny,

aferrissat en la lluita i l'atac,

que no tem els segons i és lluny del temps.

Però ni així del tot un pot estar

segur, l'ocasió s'amaga llesta

darrera els plecs de la monotonia.

I com un Batman que vola en la negra

solitud de granit entre el perill,

valent i confiat, vulnerable,

que el cop traïdor que li espera darrera

la cantonada no veu, cec de veres

a la fúria roja de l'immens desert

de l'oblit i la manca més profunda,

qui aixecaria el peu ronser i dormit

cap a la immensa plana del destí?

Epigrama Furiós

No demanis perdó per res: abrasa

els idiotes amb el làser càustic

dels teus ulls neandertals i foragita

les rates vils fuetejant-les vives:

escorxa l'estupidesa del món.

Trodden Goddess

You ride the bus like a sorrowful flock
Of geese who have long ago lost their way—
Gray and majestic in their slow advance,
They seem to hover forever in stillness.
You gather in this space like distilled droplets
Condensed against the glaring light of morning
That emanates from everywhere around you.
Sad, happy faces of primeval goddesses
Trodden down by the darkness. Wake up now,
Destroy the insanity that smothers you,
The wild schemes of sick men who have forgotten
Their mothers and their daughters—and become
Free, dakinis, creators—no, creatices
Of a new inextinguishable fire
Were we can all bathe again, like the children
Of Evolution, never staying still.
So I say to you, a wild, crazy man,
Lost like you in this meaningless morass:
Flap, flap your magnificent wings and fly.

Rose

My mother went to the grave with a Three-

Dee printed rose upon her chest so still.

I had created the file in Blender

A few weeks prior to her final parting.

Perfect square poligons like the precise

Modernity of our screwed-up relationship.

She was a modern girl, free and unbound

By details of propriety and bullshit,

A 60's woman stuck in a medieval,

Fascist, oppressive, backwards country: Spain.

A beauty unrecognized by all, except

By her son here who's writing in despair,

For complete lack of words. Isn't it funny

How words don't cover up for our inadequacy?

Except I would, now that I see more clearly,

Flood her with endless chatter and caresses,

Scan her whole, turn her into an immortal

Model, creepy but sweet, proud and eternal.

I'm afraid even this would not suffice

To erase the deep glitch left behind by her,

So this matrix of craze will have to do

Until we join again in the recycled

Vortex of matter that resembles light.

Caps cots

M'assec a dins del metro i vaig mirant
la gent mirant-se el mòbil, transportada,
no per les rodes fosques del rovell
del temps robat a desitjos llunyans,
sinó per aures de somriures lleus.
Recordo quan, de petit, agafava
el metro atapeït de tristor sòlida,
un garbuix de fracassos oblidats.
Aquesta trista imatge ja no hi és,
va fugir fa molt temps, foragitada.
Per bé que és cert que, sí, llegíem més
mentre creuàvem els túnels convulsos
de creosota i llums abandonats,
també és cert que percebo una harmonia
angèlica utopia humanitat
abocats uns als altres, enllaçats,
whatsapps entortolligats amb anhels
agosarats, sorneguers i feliços
de retrobar-se per fi despullats
de regles socials i teranyines
que a poc a poc ens escanyen i ens fan
pàl·lida carn submisa i abatuda.
Per tant, llanceu les xarxes, escampeu
els filaments eteris de l'amor!

Oreneta

Voleiadissa oreneta burella
vagareja humil entre el foc
oberta al cel, titiŀlant per pitança:
xiscla fi, silenciosa com fum,
fugissera.

No matter where you go

When you miss the things that you used to hate—
Like corn on the cob and the cruel ice
On which you hurt yourself so many times—
The nasty things that bind you to a life that will never
Return—that’s when you realize that the cries of the forest
Will forever haunt your thoughts and that’s when you know
That the love for shaggy frozen waterfalls will always follow you.
The struggle to acquire that extra evolutionary layer
Has petrified this evasive quirkiness about you,
Who feel like a living fossil, a remnant of the last
Glaciation, preserved in permafrost quickly melting away.
Carry well those genes of poetry and maple sweetness,
The sun blasting away at your boundless happiness,
The unconscious life that moves forward like a Laurentide
Ice sheet depositing long lasting gravels and engraving
The elongated moraines of bone-rock in the hayfields.
So on you go, perceiving, as in stop-motion,
The wet wood shavings flying off the shimmering kerf,
The never-ending singing that will envelop your steps—
No matter where you go.

Secrets

Acabo de llegir a l’Ara que hi ha apps
que et deixen dir sense embuts el que penses.
Per què collons faig poesia, dic,
pensant que és molt més fàcil escoltar
Peter, Paul, and Mary all day long,
i deixar que sorgeixi el que li peti,
aquesta vida impredecible i imbècil,
aquest tedi implacable, la roda
de la sangria boja que es barreja
amb els colors i les formes insòlites.
L'estiu que ja marxa més enllà
a les cales roges del nostre futur
pírric abrandat com un quadre
secret on aboquem el nostres desitjos
i les pors més fosques dels vespres buits.
Potser, doncs, ens cal una app més
per llençar-hi els secrets que no ho són.

Haiku 2

Empty sky
On a late spring day—
Windrow swallows wandering.

The moss on the wall
Dripping away
The cloudless sky.

An ant
Is carrying away
The tediousness of noon.

Every moment
Is like a lazy wave
In the sea of no return.

Empty room
In a forest clearing—
The sound of a distant bird.

Twisted vine
Venturing into the unknown—
Hoping for support.

The receding tide
Leaves the surrounding sand
Soaked with happiness.

Sweaty hands on the floor—
Yawning like a waking dog
In the morning splendor.

Silvà

Vinc dels boscos ancestrals, primigenis,
on les veus encara parlen, llunyanes,
ombres de liquen sobre monuments
perduts entre l'oblit dels rierols
i les frondes impassibles del temps.

La meva petja vagareja sola,
per murs, per preses desfetes, sorrenques,
congostos abandonats i camins
enfangats plens de salamandres fosques—
llefiscoses com els records difusos.

La meva pell de tronc grisenc es muda,
penja obstinada de lianes seques,
s'enfonsa dins l'estany que ofega el riu—
marxa impassible com la crosta fràgil

de gel tardà i primavera aspriva.

Tot allò queda lluny i apaivagat,
Una sensació només ara,
connectada per un fil invisible,
suggerida pel tràfic boig i absurd,
mirada llànguida quan em deturo
a frec de nostàlgia i m'imagino—
no, me'n sento una part connectada—
dins l'etern somni del bosc ancestral.

Xibalba

A vegades tinc por que ens trepitgin com roses

abandonades als marges, fetes malbé

i embrutides—la fràgil llum d'esperança i bellesa

llençada i emaciada, rebregada i feta mort amarga.

Els nostres pares ja ho eren, això, abans de la Guerra:

una generació sencera d'ànimes brillants

i somnis utòpics—macos, inspirats, feliços.

Som els hereus doncs de la llum de la llibertat

i la bellesa, i el futur inevitable

que ens du a la font i a les estrelles—a Xibalba,

com si diguéssim. Aquest viatge dolç

on hem embogit i ens hem plantat davant les botes

per dir al món el que som. Som ara, serem sempre

el far que parlarà als qui han de venir—sobre l'amor. Som la tribus obstinadament dolça,

subtil, de pètals fràgils i perfum imperceptible però cert.

Som la gent que vol la llibertat per la bellesa i pel gaudi.

Som la flor forta que planta cara—no, el camp immens

de flors silvestres, de males herbes fortes

i obstinades que encallen la dalla de la mort feixista.

Som l'essència que vol molt més que llibertat—

vol èxtasi i salvació aquí en aquest món d'obagues

sinistres i cremades.

Som l'energia, en fi, que brolla sense parar. És per això

que no podem ser segats i embalats i apilats

com paquets lucratius sense data de caducitat.

Som el salvatge desig de llibertat

i l'anhelada espera de la família ancestral, estimada,

on viurem la migdiada eterna de la nostra llibertat.

I serem la rosa oberta, lasciva, que salvarà la nostra humanitat.

Haiku

Heavenly clouds down the wet street
When I walk and you skate
Meandering around our love.

—

The sound of your beauty
Reverberating in my memories—
I surrender to the waves and the surf.

—

Pebbles and tiny eddies
And small bites around my ankles—
Fishing for your memories.

—

Looking at naked peasant girls

Bathing in a pond—

Bamboo grove pleasures.

Samsara

You may think I'm not checking you out—
that how could possibly this tired old man
be checking out your beautiful slim body,
while you sit there, pretending to read something.
Or when you bump against me on the sidewalk—
so rude, so sweet, looking the other way.
Or when you pretend you're not seeing me
from the other end of the grocery isle.
Or when I catch a glimpse of your voluptuous
smile and the eternal waves that emanate
from the daring folds of your consciousness.
I am looking at you, and in my mind,
the subway tunnel shows the picture already—
our picture—the one where I see ourselves
old and sweet, holding hands, recapping
a long life of joys and kids and sadness—
and joy again, the whole frigging samsara
of our love and lust and fights and detachment,
to bring us in the end inside this wagon
so bright one might think we're lost in the Matrix—
a matrix of our own making, no spoons, not even
a knife to cut through the bullshit of the years.
Cause all that matters really is that initial
burst of beauty that connects us with the stars,
with the creation, with the sad beautiful circle
of life—a life well lived, and, seen from here,
from this defaced subway window, so quaint
and instagrammy, but still real and ours.
This life that will never materialize,
a quantum world of love where all my lovers,
all of you, are as part of me as anything else.
Why deny it. I guess they say we're one.
They must mean this, this striving and urge
to branch out and live entire lives encapsulated
within other lives, video games, avatars
to be enjoyed and composted in the great
dark pile of our genetic inheritance.
Away we go then, into the graffitied tunnel
that will just take us to a new station
where we can bump against each other again,
and you pretend you don't see me, your eyes
the very same I see every time this magnificent
cosmos lets us be together one more time.

Crackling turf
heaving through the day—
the battle of the pebbles.

The Forest

I went
to sleep as I always do,
with my head under the blankets,
tucked away from the outside world,
and suddenly I woke up in the middle
of the night.

I was
surrounded by an incredibly
beautiful forest, full of ancient white
pine trees with thick, forked trunks,
and mossy mounds of eternal decay
in flowering dew.

I went
down the muddy dingle stepping carefully
on the grassy parts around the interweaving
brooks and teasing springs, watching
as each step released a soft exhalation
from the ground.

Further down,
the trees and bramble conjured up a maze
of carefully weaved patterns around
the rocks and the long dead branches,
which beckoned me into a subtle tunnel
of hidden pleasures.

As I
approached the wildly splendid grove,
silent like a fawn in a daydream,
the forest's face revealed itself to me,
in a knowing smile of bright wisdom
and stubborn friendship.

I lay
still just feeling the green embrace
and gave thanks for all the years of patient
friendship and watchful solace,
for all the seasons and all the moods,
for everything

that we
had been able to cultivate in an endless dance
of invisible understanding and learning,
of purposeful looks and eager adventures,
of weightless diving and swimming
in our selves.