Fénix

En estas noches olvidadas
De cenizas y cascaras de huevo
Esparcidas como estrellas
Solo existe la paciencia.

Vuelve el Recuerdo, ineluctable,
En sombra de girasol,
En ave de arena y sangre.

The Automated Poet

I don't know how to feel about this. Today I discovered a "Dada Poetry Generator" which basically asks you to write a small piece of text, then it scrambles all your words and gives them the appearance of a poem. I tried it with the last sentence from yesterday's post and added my own punctuation. The whole thing is pretty pathetic and counterproductive, but it's pretty entertaining.

Streets made of water.
Water streets of silence, empty.
The empty me, water like
empty streets, me of water.
Streets empty, falling like silence.
Streets empty, like silence, me.

Viajeros y Suicidas

Last time I saw her she was leaning on the windowsill smoking a cigarette, her dark eyes observing the silent night askance. Her hair hanged disheveled as she told me about some Buñuel movie about a nun. Had to do with a game of cards and the crown of Christ in the fire. Something about an old man using a jump rope. Brother used a belt. Images sprung to my mind in a sudden flash of nauseating light. Numb heat under the eyelids. Open, close, open, close. Still there, humid.

"I leave tomorrow." I told her as I noticed a silent crane resting over white buildings.

Her eyes remained fixed on the darkness outside as she asked where I was going.

"I don't know yet."

Italy came to my mind. Leaves splayed in the narrow, barren streets; behind a small door, under a dim light, a swart man whispers in a vapid voice to the rhythm of the crackling leaves.

I ricordi saranno dei grumi d'ombra
appiattati così come vecchia brace
nel camino. Il ricordo sarà la vampa
che ancor ieri mordeva negli occhi spenti.

When I left I paused in the corridor and listened but heard nothing. The empty streets made me think of water, falling like silence.

Cela ne veut rien dire.

Something about the French language. I can't stop buying books in French that I am in no way prepared to read. I pick them up flip through them read random sentences. Aloud. Something so natural about reading those sentences. Maybe it's some kind of nostalgia. Being lost in language. Grew into it. Lost. There was always that barrier. A puzzle. It's always there. Even now, in my native country, I feel apart. Distant from its language; inept; closer to that which was acquired than to that into which I was born. Yet I feel it is a good thing. To be able to choose your bounds, to the extent in which you can. English or Spanish; seems the or is what matters. Maybe not mutually exclusive either. Peut-être... peut-être. It was sudden then. Sundered from the sounds that brought me forth, thrown into a sea of incomprehensible voices, a vociferous void. Grew into it. Became part of it. Then, just like that, I wanted to come back. An impulse, maybe. Wanderlust. I was aware that I wanted to do something, and it felt right to come here. Helped my Spanish but deprived me of English in its natural tumultuous state. Just a tacit taste; intangible. So is it water or land? Something about the French language.

Europe.

We are what we, as beings, are;
Becoming:
Innocuous shadows
on a silver screen;
Sibilant movements:
static;
statues:
perpetual passing of the flame
to that stagnant horseman
covered by a present not his own,
the one without pupils.