Poetry
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All Boundaries Are Conventions
An oldie but a goodie. I wrote this in 2015 or 2016. I wrote it in the Hispanic House at the College of William & Mary, where I lived my senior year. I vaguely remember being at one of the desks in one of the Casa Hispana’s shared spaces in the evening, perhaps after an evening class, gym session, or club meeting, and certainly with other pending deadlines. It was dark outside and the lights turned a little low as we had codified for nights in mutual respect of each others’ bedtimes. Se me ocurrió escribir esto, what else can I say. All boundaries are conventions. All boundaries are conventions.that’s…
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Tatiana ii
Me mudé a la península de San Petersburgo, encantado del olor de la luna. Las ondas de las estrellas flotan de estado en estado, atrayendo a monos de todos los rincones y árboles. Antes se empacaban en trenes y ya la arena rasca los entremedios de sus dedos y arrugas. Sin esfuerzo, sus tensiones se relajan y sus sonrisas se desatan. Años atrás, durante pandemia, Tania y yo, por su cumpleaños, visitamos L’Hermitage online. Me deslumbraron las dimensiones de la estructura e historia. Siglos de geneologías luchándose abstraídos a dos dimensiones, a veces tres en escultura, transmitidos en salas virtuales, mediante ondas .5GHz entrecortadas entre el viento húmedo de la…
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Tatiana i explicación Con este poema – y espero que yo lo haya logrado – estuve intentando expresar la sensación de que una Tania no se busca, se encuentra. El humano es incapaz de imaginarse a otro humano tan altamente bueno como me era Tania. Ojalá, iglualmente, yo le haya aproximado algo parecido. Del todo, la búsqueda de ello siente ingenua. ¿Cómo apuntar a lo que no se puede imaginar? Platón se planteó lo mismo a través de su teoría del reconocimiento. ¿Cómo es que uno pudiera saber si ha encontrado lo que quería si nunca lo ha visto? Su postulado se trató de almas espírituales y sus vidas corporales…
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Tatiana i
Busco de día, bailo en boliches las noches, contemplo de madrugada. No encuentro a nadie; Dios, minando el infinito replandor de su entramado espiritual, se halló a Tania
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The Pen Unbroken
Written by P-Man Swiftly gliding, quickly flowing, stalwart, resolute, unbroken The sole instrument of a feverish mind, alone the antidote of chaos Clarifying that which is held locked within, an angelic trumpet amidst the fog Bursting forth in flames, across the page it brands anew, the hopes, the wants, to see one through A poem wrought of night’s depth true, the pen unbroken to see it through P-Man works in sales and is an aspiring author writing out of New England.
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Singing My Girl in Viejo San Juan
One of the most in tune with life I’ve felt in the past few years was ad-libbing an interpolation of My Girl with a friend from college as we walked along the coastline of outer Viejo San Juan. We were almost precisely 6 years out of undergrad and on the cusp of financial security. Our peers were beginning to marry. We were in Viejo San Juan’s outer suburbs, interspersed with federal and industrial buildings like military, storage and electrical facilities, walking back to a rental car in order to return it and fly our separate ways back to the continental United States. It was about a twenty minute walk through…
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Breaking Point?
I dreamed, first person, that I was on a stage behind two presenters in an opulent classical theater. The spotlight was on the presenters seated at a desk and facing the audience. The audience was only dimly lit, perhaps at most reflection of the stage lights; it was hard for me to see because the brilliant spotlights obstructed my vision. No one acknowledged my presence. As if I was a first-person-limited floating camera, my point of view would shift around just like cuts in a video production. The show on stage was like a news or news commentary show with a live audience. The two presenters were bantering about about…
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Stargazing
Our eyes glisten with wonder. Who are we? Who do we want to be? Is it worth the effort?Should I have tried harder to keep her?Less hard?Have my sacrifices been worth it?Will my current ones pay off?After a while, the stars are aesthetically pleasing but stop conferring meaning to what’s going on down here. Even if we knew exactly how the stars operated, could they bestow love or justice or fulfillment?To see the parallax of the stars behind the silhouette of my girlfriend as she ascends a set of stairs to a patio is much more fulfilling.The stars as a context or backdrop is much more fitting. Nature’s Christmas lights…
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El prólogo: escribir sin conclusión
Esto se alienta por el prólogo de Doce Cuentos Peregrinos de García Márquez. Acuerdo con ése en la medida en que pinta el escribir casi como una aflicción. Es una búsqueda sin fin. Cada esbozo conlleva la frustración de que ése tampoco me alcanzó representar la idea del cerebro. Fue por aquel sentimiento de frustración y sin-finitud que me dejé de escribir hace un par de años. Sin conclusión concreta, ¿apenas hay un propósito? Dejarlo de lado realmente me facilitó la vida. Me salvó del dolor de tratar de explicar los sentimientos sin poder, el mismo dolor por el que gritan los bebés antes de expresarse articulados; cuando gritan, no…
