I remember

I remember
Learning how to dive
Deep-end board
I was high.

I remember learning how to dive.

I just had to go
To the end of the board
I distract myself
And go waaaaaaaaaay up now
I just had to jump
You just have to jump
And touch the water
With the end of your fingers.

I remember
Learning how to dive
Deep-end board
I was high.

I remember learning how to dive.

Where the sidewalk ends

***

Born like this
Into this
As the chalk faces smile
As Mrs. Death laughs
As the elevators break
As political landscapes dissolve
As the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
As the oily fish spit out their oily prey
As the sun is masked
We are
Born like this
Into this
Into these carefully mad wars
Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
Into bars where people no longer speak to each other
Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
Born into this
Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
Born into this
Walking and living through this
Dying because of this
Muted because of this
Castrated
Debauched
Disinherited
Because of this
Fooled by this
Used by this
Pissed on by this
Made crazy and sick by this
Made violent
Made inhuman
By this
The heart is blackened
The fingers reach for the throat
The gun
The knife
The bomb
The fingers reach toward an unresponsive god
The fingers reach for the bottle
The pill
The powder
We are born into this sorrowful deadliness
We are born into a government 60 years in debt
That soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
And the banks will burn
Money will be useless
There will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
It will be guns and roving mobs
Land will be useless
Food will become a diminishing return
Nuclear power will be taken over by the many
Explosions will continually shake the earth
Radiated robot men will stalk each other
The rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante’s Inferno will be made to look like a children’s playground
The sun will not be seen and it will always be night
Trees will die
All vegetation will die
Radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
The sea will be poisoned
The lakes and rivers will vanish
Rain will be the new gold
The rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind
The last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases
And the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
The petering out of supplies
The natural effect of general decay
And there will be the most beautiful silence never heard
Born out of that.
The sun still hidden there
Awaiting the next chapter.

C.B.

Nina

I knew a man, Bojangles
And he danced for you
In worn out shoes.

With silver hair, a ragged shirt
And baggy pants, the old soft shoe.

He jumped so high,
He jumped so high,
Then he lightly touched down.

Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles,
Mr. Bojangles, dance!

Comentario bonsai

Odio a las madres que usan el cochecito del hijo cual tanque de guerra.

Hoy

Hoy hay como olor a Navidad.

Two Pendants: For The Ears

2 partridges

2 Mallard ducks

a Dungeness crab

24 hours out

of the Pacific

and 2 live-frozen

trout

from Denmark.

Titanes en el ring

Zapping

acá.

Cosas que pasan si estás de vacaciones

esto.

La sartén por el mango

Tal cual

Lo posteó Uralita y lo copy-pasteo porque es muy bueno:

You have a chronic addiction to blogging if:

1. You are constantly thinking in a “writing mode” such that each word is carefully chosen to fit the tone you’re thinking for an entry.
2. You see one interesting situation or experience something of human interest and your brain furiously starts putting piece by piece of words and you just can’t wait to be in front of your computer.
3. You spent wasted time just staring at your homepage and be all-smug on how cool you think it is.
4. You are perpetually racking your brain for “something” to write about.
5. Your spare moments are spent reading other people’s blog.
6. When you’re online, you like to check your blog stats as if it would, somehow miraculously, have significant changes over a period of five minutes.
7. You just can’t decide which blog template or theme you’d like to use forever
8. You are forever rearranging the widgets in your sidebar and editing stuff in the dashboard
9. You kick yourself when something worthy of a picture happened and you forgot to bring your camera. My! That would have been a nice thing to write about!
10. The first thing you do when you go online is, usually, to check your blog site
11. Logging in to your blog host has become part of your daily ritual.
12. You’d really rather sit in the computer than wash the dishes
13. You like to google for plug-ins and widgets that you think you may need for your blog.
14. You try your darnedest to understand even just a bit of html codes and all the terminologies that go with the territory
15. You insists blogging is just a hobby
16. When you haven’t been online for sometime, words, phrases and sentences keep wadding in your brain you don’t know how to compartmentalize them into logical subjects anymore
17. Your most favorite place in the world right now is in front of your computer. When you’re not in any part of the house, you’re sure to be in front of the computer.
18. You’ve grown to hate the spammers in your comments section out to ruin your blog and you are often tempted to write them a hellish letter in their contact mail
19. You sometimes lose sleep over writing
20. People in your house often find themselves talking to the back or side of your head because you just can’t take your eyes off the computer.
21. They’d be lucky if they even hear a mumble from you when you’re in the middle of writing.

En breve

Me estaré mudando. Hacemos así, me escriben acá anaywu@gmail.com y les paso la dirección del nuevo sitio güeb.
Chau chau.

Doña Amanda y Horacito perdidos

en el tablero.

Yo, Carlos Sacaán, lo garantizo

(...) al libro de mi amigo personal Greg Stekelman. Adquiéralo ya mismo por la interné.

Ceci n'est pas mon bureau

Ésta no es mi oficina: