I managed not to foot the footsteps of my guardian angel.
I, who had such beautiful eyes in my early season, I have not heard
avoid the cliff of conigo walking destination,
who dresses as a light at the expense of my nakedness and his duels
and extending his kingdom by dint of encroachments and depredations.
It's like a pit up
the lookout for a step into the void,
a mouth that absorb these few drops of liquor dispensing gods
a bloody arena in which the wind sucks the future of heroin
and throws it to his gold-
lions echoing the fall, grade to grade, with sound death count
sounds like the opposite of all grace.
Stuck on my heels,
attached to my days as a cancer to the time warp,
as faithful as the home country or sediment blind my heritage, not only
hold of my most earnest, inseparable possessions
but fast forward with his shadow on the fly from my hand
and even crashed into the blue glass that reflects the beginning of a wish.
A veces, muchas veces,
me acorrala contra el fondo de la noche cerrada, inapelable,
y despliega su cola, su abanico fastuoso como el rayo de un faro,
y exhibe uno por uno sus tesoros
-pedrerías hirientes a la luz de mis lágrimas-:
la casa dibujada con una tiza blanca en todos los paraísos prometidos;
los duendes con sombreros de paja disipando la niebla en el jardín;
pedazos de inocencia para armar algún día su radiante cadáver;
mi abuela y Berenice en los altos desvanes de las aventuras infantiles;
mis padres, mis amigos, mis hermanos, brillando como lámparas en el túnel de las alamedad;
vitrales de los grandes amores arrancados the cathedral of hope
garb of that bent to the chest again bottomless;
decks of playing cards culled from victory marked;
and prodigious stones, bright prints and cities like fireflies in the forest,
all all on a network of red cobwebs
that are actually paths that cut across the veins.
I'm not talking here of gains and losses,
wins and losses incidental.
I have not come to mourn with tears of agony my sorrow, my balance
dust,
but to affirm the denial Headquarters:
this old quarry of greed, this immense glacier
vampire who dresses lights my mourning.
And I like a pirate ship bow, wearing a ragged peninsula
continent of looting.
No. 13, reality Mutations (1979)
