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For a balance

I tested a thousand times
forcing my head to the neck in the joints where the universe ends
or throwing it rolling until the vertigo the endless blue of the skies empty. Unthinkable
limits; unthinkable immensity also unlimited.
My head was now a wreck inside the bubble of fever,
a trophy of God over the fence from exile, a seething
Arcimboldo in the pike erected in my bones;
yet hatched secret passages to the tower of salvation.
's turned upside down, the sun began to evaporate by inclement,
until melted into the tiny memory salt is just delete it from oblivion.
But each blank region was a surge towards the promised land.
light them up only to plunge into loss in the trappings of time, just to prove
forms of the night and thought of as an acid solution
ambiguous that preserved intact the agony.
has triumphed again against iron bars and rocks, landslides and empty.
And is not tried,
on wheels and wheels of visions in flames relentlessly overwhelm my place,
that even with hell accrete domains in this meager head? I played my heart
the storm, a swirling
insatiable wings went further that all borders. Against
eye that stuck where it drowns the dream,
against blackouts and capitulations, I played until the end of the open
to continuous brilliance, continued stabbing, pure loss.
I squeezed between two black rags, including broken glass,
as a relic whose worship exalt only transgression and sacrilege
tore the archangel in heaven promised, with his court of dogs
night executioner nailed side by side the scaffold of disagreements, then dug it
ice needles, spoons hungry
and found at the bottom of a small amulet:
a drop of mercury to pounds who is looking for atonement and death.
I've become so dark faces fixed stars, dust deposits
dazzled sites like jewels in the desert.
can witness those who loved and was loved by the end of
world-a world that does not end even under the cliffs of the goodbyes at close range.
"Where is then the defeat of a heart on tenterhooks
alert for the love of every day, free like a phoenix from the excesses? I bet
my arrival at each intersection of randomly greater mystery,
to this secret letter that touched the feet of the high adventures on the website of the legend.
To get there you had to go through the depths of the soul;
had to penetrate through swamps where splash death and madness, delusions
by greedy as catacombs and tunnels to the closure;
had to transpose fissures and wounds sometimes communicate with eternity.
not preserve my house or my clothes or my skin or my eyes.
The sanction was exposed to fierce guardians at the edge of the world,
in exchange for that step further into the abyss of love,
a recognizable echo of words only in the alphabet of dreams
half a dive into the icy waters that gnaw the threshold of the other side.
If I look back now, I see my footprints
left no footprints in the sand phosphorescent.
My journey is a blast lofts gray fog,
just a trickle of salt in the rain, a flight from foreign bands.
But I'm still here, holding my bet,
always all or nothing, as long as if it was the penultimate day of the centuries.
may have won by measuring the light that shines on you, greedy
by force that absorbs me sometimes a kingdom never seen and lived longer, the signal
incomparable grace that transforms in every possible loss miracle.

No. 17, the night drifting (1984)

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Al

.

The court is high end and no borders.
sensitive to random variations in the cloud or fire,
records every stroke that falls on the territories of destination insomniacs.
In one night outside the other end, the license to blame,
drawing my own writing career, fatal, the blind witness. Setbacks and progress
, dips and flights, suspended and falls
up that text which is tied and unties illation with hesitation,
is concealed with caution yaw and foot on glass,
stops and is lost with every driver dreams jolt.
And what will be the total effect, which slips away as the beast of the trap and sets
die from weed dark skin leaving
or flight without stopping by the whites of the crossroads, inward maze?
accusation or allegation, I fail to interpret the intentions of the elusive message. Hard
reading from here, where I violated the law and the instrument, where rights and wrongs
spread like a ripple, a vice
language or disciplined maneuvers of a plague,
and change the color of my syllabus in and forth ago.
But there is someone who does not confuse ignorance
someone who reads even under the deletions and the dismemberment of my calligraphy
while filtering the sun and the sea sparkles between two lines. Print
blood is my confession, sealed with ash.
.

.

No. 16, the night drifting (1984)

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exactly how much we hurt

Susan Josephine Fragueiro
.

.
Now where are you,
expelled from paradise all of this world,
without finding your place or in the forest of the cicada or the tower ant,
and even in a wilderness of loneliness that molds resigned as a fact to your body as a pillow
renunciation of your head? You've already crossed
lucid, with your eyes votive lamp,
that vanishing point you were talking about,
where the gap begins to reverse and widen the land of promise.
Now, when you could teach me all the subtleties of the way, simulate
certainly not proud to know them to praise the attempts of my feet
and build a queen seat of my mistakes,
like this side.
We walked together so many years feeling seams that joined us this story! You
loosen the knots and cut it a stroke every stitches,
with the same excess of handing your bread and you rush into the abyss and into the fire
-itself, the boundless love, passion and exuberance,
the excessive inertia in the face vampire ritual of doom.
you rip your bag of weather, your clothing of bones,
the handful of gray stones attached to the last fold of fate, Sandy
jaw,
and ran away by the dazzling galleries without another sun your soul no more coat
two or three names from your nakedness
crowded as reliquaries.
Did not we already ajar again the edges of shadows
as a gap where life and death exchange their hostages
pious as ghosts? Ever
could hold hands, when we are very lonely
,
when the dread of tiger fur coat with all the windows?
My hand, to meet yours, there is no answer, as if slip
naked and blind by a mirror surface that erases. Eye
recorded only the heat of immersion in a vacuum endless inexorable.
My words are like shredded clear glass against the wall.
"may not come, you who always went before being called,
you, that you stand as a shortcut to the need
and were flying like a bird attracted by the white smudge of a wish?
Can be a messenger of the breakfast, watch the epidemic and the storm? Perhaps you have confused
again
place and time and again before and lost travelers wandering dunes and crossroads between circular air
confused with that of those who do not feel expected
of going nowhere. Perhaps
dwell on those sites and cathedrals in which your voice sounded Piaf,
the cry rising in spurts from love desagarrada throat hurt to forgiveness:
or in those rooms who sought your life miserable in a yawning black
and you threw at random and disorder as two glaciers;
or next to those committees in which you drank alcohol to large flares,
not to see the world through a party, but to burn the pial to misfortune;
or in the attic where I left a Christmas tree
as deluded forever an angel perched on every corner inhospitable year
much further and there, in houses that now are clouds,
where you could draw such a perfume, a head of a stone,
when not yet had that double vision of that perfect failure as a gravure,
when smothered with bars still pictures,
when you draped in the future under the guise of Donatello and Michelangelo,
and it was still early.
What accounts will be keeping a closer eye, blurring
your tortured biography with deletions that are a minus?
Or do you hold a wing from above, while struggles for desasirte
with those stormy flapping,
with that little beast force exasperated with you resisted the cages of any ordinance,
injuries and penalties accrue only with patience strange?
Or you have not managed to enter and you can not come on to the exit?
I can not assume that you're sitting in your chair Van Gogh making another tough anteroom,
reviewing the holes in your story for the keys, as if they were
stamped with fire in your two hands, as if they were necessary
;
or agapanthus waits between celestial dream that you wake up in the morning rags,
facing the wall,
where a door had just a curtain walling and vanishes,
and turn your head and be unable to distinguish your poor belongings,
the low certainty to protect you every day. I can not stand
levels suspended from a reflection, cornered in the impossible.
I who gropes not find the slogan, or who forge
visions with the smoke exhaled from their own nightmares. Both
illusory veil to cover the gaps in your absence!
No, no more effort you make trying on bandages visible fog, do not try to dry myself
every tear with a breath of winter, do not try to whisper
with the crackling of the logs the old tunes.
You and I need more evidence that
thirst to know that somewhere gurgling groundwater.
We walked together so many years under these dreadful gleaming wheels waiting for a miracle!
Now wherever you are is the miracle:
that is "the land of nowhere, your true homeland."
There is the golden flower, the crown of light,
the secret heart of the jewel that your heart beats and lights up the darkness.
Do not look back.
rises, rises to lose sight of as the migration this autumn,
as bones that break up on the beach.
And olvídanos with broken crockery, calendars dead, shoes,
olvídanos tenderly, with such fervent obstinacy that you know, but olvídanos
, however much it costs you,
much we still hurts.

No. 15, the night drifting (1984)