THE PRIVATE MORAL AUTHORITY OF THIS PLACE CALLED BORDER

Mi cara ya no es la misma frente al espejo. Ya no me reconozco en las fotografías. Estoy olvidándome de mi, de mi nombre, de quién era por estos asfaltos y terracerías. Veo por el borde a los inmigrantes caminando a par del pseudo muro fronterizo, no para cruzarlo de cara a la pared sino de rodearlo acaso. Las cartas que escribí a mis seres queridos camino a verlos el mes pasado, las dejé ahí en el olvido porque sufrí de una emergencia de salud que por poco me mata.

Una dentadura perfecta es una mordida incapaz. La inyección de anestesia se fue por mi encía, pero me quedé quietecito como un flamingo en Celestún, Yucatán, a pesar de que quería salir corriendo con la pierna adolorida. Firmar lo que tenga que firmar. Pagar lo que tenga que pagar el prefijo de la libertad condicional.

Sea el día que sea, ayer era un comienzo, y mañana mi último día, aquí, aquí y ahora. Esto lo escribo, enfrente de mi. Retorcer, retrocedo y me equivoco con otra palabra. Obra el labrador, labra el obrador. Tenemos un Manuel Andrés en la silla del águila. Una televisión nívea que es permeable.

Un cóctel de camarones en el supermercado con mis padres y llevamos mandado encargado por la abuela a su casa. Eso fue ayer, ayer, ayer. Un bastón de madera amarillo con cabeza de venado será mi sostén del mundo. Me lo llevé prestado. Por muy inútil y nervioso que sea mi tío que vive con ella, acompaña a su madre hasta siempre, casi como un amante animado por salir y volver ajumado de sueños.

Me han sacado un poco de sangre, una muestra orgánica de mi espíritu indomable. Pero mi pierna necesita proteína. Una avena calientita me aliviará el alma de mi ser. Los pericos esquizofrénicos gritan a las sombras de las narcofosas. Nomenclatura que es un parche de un sustantivo. Los silbidos nos ayudan a encontrarnos unos a los otros. Recuerdo un poco los sueños.

TWELVE O’ CLOCK

  1. Las representaciones de las drogas?
  2. Trabajando en un lugar remoto.
  3. Mi traspatio es un cementerio, ahí los robles, abrieron sus piernas, corredizas al lado del arroyo. Bajaré más rápido.
  4. Abriré la constelación de mi mente a otros universos potentes.
  5. Dejaré la huella de la rima en un poemario.
  6. El legado.
  7. El amor triunfará sobre todas las odiseas.
  8. Un lugar donde sea casa.
  9. Plumas volátiles cada seis meses.
  10. Más risas en el jardín del invierno.
  11. Mi escuela estará ya a mis pies.
  12. Saldré ileso esta vez.

THRALL

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¡It is a ludicrous mortal of a stupor,
the futile task of breathing deep air
and ricochet and boom from my ears!
How many nights thinking about my research
reconsidering bizarre and pointless artworks,
facing the same loneliness and melancholy!
¿Why did I become a poet
that is no longer in the vice of the streets
and is no longer bleeding lava
in the darkness of long alleys?
Tell me why did I let go what is love to me,
And why did I let go the enigmatic
and everlasting moment in which I liquefied,
to always be that kind of a person
who always is either feeling or doing
something illegal in someone’s property
and is forced to obey the people above
and work excessively hard for them
after being away five years,
all I get is freedom…
of this persistent and self-governing body?

TAUTOLOGY

Everything is ominous,
everything has changed again.
My feet, remain on the air,
everything is unknown to me;
I find it very strange.
Neither starvation takes away my curiosity.

Soon I will go home,
and nothing will have changed,
maybe the color of their hair?
My bedroom will be
an area of memories,
a gallery of a dozen oil
paintings
and a white sculpture
of plaster,
without—finishing—
sanding.
I will go home,
but before
I will fly,
halfway
to the beginning.

THE BRIDGE

So, the feeling of being astonished,
it is a curved paradigm,
it is like the curvature of the earth,
or as when women arching the back
is a great sign of pleasure?
its curves
to save not only a geographical accident,
but xenophobic incidents.
It curves, like a rainbow
comes out of nowhere.
All of us, who have crossed that curvature
with legal papers,
either under wheels, or on foot,
crossed to other types of pathologies.

RAIN AND TEARS   

With bawls, the rain shed tears from the loud
clouds in its maximum splendor
and in its serious overflow,
there is a beat at the rhythm of the water drums:
The nightmares kill without the proper infusion
and with the calibrated pistol. Nightmares kill:
The poem is the rumba of pain
The poem is the cradle of the centrifugal shooting star
The poem is the head of an infant coming out of the womb
even if it looks dead
is instantly hanging on its feet. Tears fall.

FOSSILS

In the beginning, there were marine plants,
animals that grew in seas and dinosaurs
around El Paso and Juárez surrounding areas.
Now the calmness, the fossils and the ancient
rock formations are still, motionless.

In the beginning when we moved to the new house,
sunlight entered through my terrace window,
creaking noises into the silence of my old bedroom.
Downstairs was —isolated— two green parrots.
Caged. One talked about how delicious sunflower
seeds were; the other screamed unhinged
for food and water. There they were winged,
unable to fly, maneuvering over the hedge.

At the beginning of my twenties, I lived and worked
between twin cities, as a young man who rode his bicycle
back and forth, packed books heading north.
Now, I lack a good immigration lawyer;
Now, USCIS has asked me for every piece of information
to judge if I am worth it a dime, to stay in Di. Zzzy.

Holy guacamole, into my big mouth. And capsaicinoids
burning, a hundred percent my tongue—
a spicy solution to breath better from the air of this space.
I tried to leaven my hometown with cotton fields.
Now I howl to Hell Paso as a mad poet.
Before, I was accompanied by the Rio Bravo, almost dry,
I dared not climb the wall just for fun.
I’m afraid that the migra will shoot me.
The river dries up and I feel thirsty
And I go a little closer to see the other Rio Grande go by.