rupisima’s Upstream Escape

On a separate note:

I'm looking at my own text above.

It is rather worrisome;

there is hardly any room to READ

to breathe, to read

to breathe, to be

to breathe, to move

I am

unsure

of this transformation

Of space,

of shape,

of vocabulary,

of aspiration

and mostly

of intention.

I wonder.

I wonder,

I wander...

yeah, right...

I wish!

The "normal,"

the sedentary,

just launched

a projected procedure

at my window.

I wanted to scream,

to run.

to run...

to run.

And then

your note

reminded

me

of

the

many spaces

we already

roam,

the wandering

wishes

we share

and the smashing

days

ahead.

Run

When

will you

stop

looking for typos

here

and

err back

into the

sunlight ?

tacit brown pupils

boisterously promise

another

shipwreck

between

the

notes

of an

unsung

aria.

i have not missed  you either.

Are you there?

Silences chasing

acute

stridulations

of

chirping crickets,

absentminded fireflies

wandering

in an empty backyard

taunt

the delights of my solitude.

Piercing absences

re-colonize

unchartered deserts of

a less

egregious me.

In this darkest night

the possibility

of your

existence

turns me into

a paper lantern

under a desolate azabache sky.

Things one

could

never utter,

exclamation marks

stuck in

her eyebrows,

anonymous guillemets of

mute absentees,

infinite elliptical wish lists of the forbidden,

etched in blue on her torso.

An unforgivable

route promised a nuchal tour

and meandering course into

the faceless

gaze

of

your

imagination.

Yesterday

draped

in oblivion,

she

etched

tomorrow's

expeditions

into

shades of

indelible blue

on her back.

Now, you

are

doomed to

perdition

and

poetry.

Feel free to get lost!

Basically, you have

only

two options

you either

get lost

or

you die.

Geography

is just

an excuse

to

keep you alive.

Where borders,

deltas and parallels

are designed for finitude,

you and I are not.

I mean it.

You and I are not:

You are not:

Naught.

Let's redraw

the distance

between

your

silence

and my gaze.

Thirteen thirsty thorns

cushion

this infinitesimal path

of no return

whilst

I steal these syllables

from your

muteness

to

my hope chest

of oblivion.

Somewhere

on this

route

I have

left

you a

note.

I hope you never find it.

Click here to download:

Espero curarme de ti.mp3 (1912 KB)

Not enough space for
a week to go by.
An old friend, a poem,
a voice... a cry
to remind me
of the silver linings of tardiness
and the silences you never miss.


Blank spaces as waiting rooms decide
if you will ever see
this other gift from Sabines:


Espero Curarme de Ti
Jaime Sabines

"Espero curarme de ti en unos días. Debo dejar de
fumarte, de beberte, de pensarte. Es posible.
Siguiendo las prescripciones de la moral en turno. Me
receto tiempo, abstinencia, soledad.

¿Te parece bien que te quiera nada más una semana?
No es mucho, mi es poco, es bastante. En una
semana se pueden reunir todas las palabras de amor
que se han pronunciado sobre la tierra y se les
puede prender fuego. Te voy a calentar con esa
hoguera del amor quemado. Y también el silencio.
Porque las mejores palabras del amor están están entre dos
gentes que no se dicen nada.

Hay que quemar también ese otro lenguaje lateral y
subversivo del que ama. (Tú saber cómo te digo que
te quiero cuando digo: "qué calor hace", "dame
agua", "¿sabes manejar?,"se hizo de noche"... Entre
las gentes, a un lado de tus gentes y las mías, te he
dicho "ya es tarde", y tú sabías que decía "te
quiero".)

Una semana más para reunir todo el amor del
tiempo. Para dártelo. Para que hagas con él lo que tú
quieras: guardarlo, acariciarlo, tirarlo a la basura. No
sirve, es cierto. Sólo quiero una semana para
entender las cosas. Porque esto es muy parecido a
estar saliendo de un manicomio para entrar a un
panteón"

You are freaking me out.

You are.

Your eye wanders through these vowels

in search

of an answer to

a question

I never

imagined.

Four

dictionaries

colonize

my desk

next to a stack of

unread letters,

dusty old books

and forgotten poems.

A dated map

on my right wall

covers

sepia pictures of

another

life.

I wiggle my toes

and like you, become

a voyeur:

my fingers have begun

to have an affair

with my keyboard,

my eyes fixated

upon the screen;

unbeknownst senses

prioritize

my thirsts.

Timely and tragically,

from the right hand corner

of my screen,

running digits puncture my pupil,

and I let go

of this rapture.

You still

want

answers?

I have to run once again.

So,

you found me.

Now I am really lost.

I feel

the

urge

to

run faster now

with my hands on

my ears

screaming

you're it,

you're it,

you're still it

and hope

you won't

see me

sprint.

Chris sends good music.

Gray, oh Gray keeps far to busy to notice time, place or people.

Seth plays incognito so Gray does not feel lost and ...

Mark unearths the past with pictures, pleasures and promises only to provoke further unrest.

Too far, too little, too much and too invisible
... mornings wilt away and days go by amidst papers, selfish gnomes and facetious faculties...
Valentines goes by and stratospheric memories gathered in a pleat abscond with my desires...
Wait, wonder, want--- we have added one more to the dubious paternal double duo...

Monday threatens without the hope of accomplishment or the hope of a stare... I still don't get it...

How are you ever going to find me?