DESDE EL CAPULÍ Prodigal Heading

I belong to the vile shortcut, to the soliloquy of the ego, to the song of the guts, never the Lennon with Yoko. Did I sing the Sanjuanito astride a llama?

I protest on social networks, I throw slander behind the back of such-and-such, I decry as a form of homage, I march in the streets of yesteryear. Do I owe an identity?

I don’t dance Palmieri’s salsa, I don’t recite Ginsberg’s howl, I don’t walk down Kerouac’s road, I don’t write Lemebel’s essays, Do I drink with Jara’s ghost?

If I want to rhyme, your sage ego is not enough nor Pittsburgh without La Plata like the Pacific of Hugo Mayo. Do I wait for the message in the bottle?

I’m the beggar you avoid, the hands and feet of earth, a farmer without technology, tenant in an old house.

Do I pray to Saint Pancras?

I don’t have Dylan’s poetry, nor Cage’s meter, it’s infuriating when they deprive me, writing like acne.

Is the answer blowing in the wind?

A orillas del Malacatos (Himno

contracorriente)

Para Montserrat

Soy una casa de barro, un camino sin veredas, ordeño vacas del cerro, el campo es mi escuela.

Soy una hoja de zinc, plástico para quemar, para las goteras la tina, macetero para sembrar.

Soy Matilde Hidalgo. Piedras de Pinzano. Palacio sin tumbado. Científico de holocausto.

Soy el pan en el tostador, un helado de la esquina, acopio en el refrigerador, el invento del agua tibia.

Soy un poema en la cartera, una corbata atada a la viga, ventana que da a la acera, una canción de despedida.

Soy el invierno del verano, posada para el peregrino, la rebeldía y ciencia al lojano, y la bruma de los eucaliptos.

On the shores of the Malacatos (Hymn against the current) For Montserrat

I’m a mud hut, a road with no sidewalks, I milk cows on the hillsides, the fields are my school.

I’m a zinc blade, plastic to burn, the tub for the leaks, flowerpot for planting.

I am Matilde Hidalgo. Stones for Pinzano. Palace with no fallen. Scientist of the holocaust.

I’m the bread in the toaster, the ice cream on the corner, stock in the refrigerator, the invention of warm water.

I’m a poem in your handbag, a tie knotted to the beam, window overlooking the sidewalk, a farewell song.

I’m summer’s winter, lodgings for the pilgrim, rebellion and science to a Lojano, and the mist of the eucalyptus.

Con una palabra, nombro dos el poema (no) tiene obligaciones, (tampoco) requiere de un poeta que lo escriba, es como un fenómeno (natural) impensado, suele ser la (des)gracia en navidad, a veces es el (día de) sol en invierno, el viaje (frustrado) a la libertad, (avión de) papel que cruza las aulas, (gritos) emancipados contra el clero, un niño (recitando) para su madre, (la lluvia en) tu traje de seda, la pausa (entre) la saliva y el aire, una discusión errada (del futuro), un plato de repe (con aguacate), (un) permiso de conducir caducado, (el título falso de) economista y médico, (es) una rima que juega a ser canción, una (maestría de) escritura no avalada, una niña cantando en el bus (de regreso a casa).

With one word, i name two the poem does (not) have obligations, it does (not) require a poet to write it, it is like an unplanned (natural) phenomenon, it tends to be the (dis)grace at christmas, at times it is the (day of) sun in winter, the (frustrated) journey to freedom, paper (airplane) crossing the classrooms, emancipated (cries) against the clergy, a child (reciting) for his mother, (the rain in) your silk dress, the pause (between) saliva and air, a misguided discussion (of the future), a plate of repe (with avocado), (an) expired driver’s permit, (the false title of) economist and doctor, (is) a rhyme that plays at being a song, an unauthorized (master's in) writing, a girl singing on the bus (on the way back home).