attempting the eventual ethic-aesthetics of an
epic-epidermatic poetics
third degree game
(Cf. “Born to Win,” James/Jongeward,
Fondo Educativo Interamericano, S.A.,
Reading, Mass., 1975, page 32)
DEDICATORY
This piece is dedicated
to Mr. NAVARRETE, Clerk of the 2nd Criminal Court of Minor
Offences, Transactional Analyst, and member of the Chilean
Writers Society
to the owner of a printing press in Recoleta, corner of Santos
Dumont, and to the memory of his son-in-law CLAUDIO
MARÍN* (twenty-two caliber)
to Dr. ARÍSTIDES ROJAS LADRÓN DE GUEVARA, translator of a
book by Hugh Prather published by CUATRO VIENTOS, and to
the memory of his then Mother-in-Law, VIOLETA PARRA* (pistol
in a tent)
to Dr. ARMANDO ROA, author of an infamous, defamatory brochure
on MOTHER CANNABIS, a venerable Treatise on PSYCHIATRY and
other books
to the NAMES of the BRAVE SOLDIERS who have been CHILE’s
BRASSIÈRE and are tattooed on our
CHESTS
to the cause of PEACE, JUSTICE, and FREEDOM
to Daddy Treasury, of which we are All pampered kids
to MOTHER EARTH (Pacha Mamma)
MOTHER NIGHT (Mutter Nacht)
MOTHER CANNABIS (CANNABIS MATER)
And to the pan where we all fry together, and You or Your Lordship will never know Who holds the handle
PREAMBLE
AFTER (INSPIRED BY) THE NAME
OF A CERTAIN TEXT USED TO REFERENCE A
NATIONAL YOUTH POETRY CONTEST
If we consider earth
not humus, or uncooked pottery
or dry mud, or clay
if we consider EARTH
this ball tracing ellipses around
that star we call Sun
ellipses that, when the sun itself moves
at an incredible speed
within that sort of rugby ball we call
Galaxy, and in turn
drifts farther away from its origin
tracing in air
a spiral whose shape is somewhat difficult to imagine
you may ask
if residing somewhere else is currently a possibility
and, even when a citizen from the sister Republic of Peru
insists on having traveled to one of Jupiter’s
moons, declaring it without an inch of doubt
habitable and inhabited
you could insist, without neglecting the APOLLO XII and its cosmonautic relatives
that, however sad it may seem
for most of us
for the time being
the answer is no.
And since we reside here
because we were born here
without any prior choice
apparently, oh human siblings
maybe, just maybe deserving such a thing
and, some of us, and I would say
the majority
without any choice of place either
on this spherical surface on this round flat earth
on which to reside live or survive or sub-live
but you can choose if you really want
to embark on any trip, as a stowaway or passenger
to anywhere even to the afterlife
you can choose to abandon this residence
even for a brief period
because the Hindus may have
been right, that we are born
again
on this shitty earth.
Every single one of us
lives survives and sub-lives in our own way
and, even when you don’t live as you’d like
as you do would or should
you live survive sub-live
here you reside
meanwhile time passes separating you from death
an event you will also experience here
(even if you aim for heaven in body and soul)
and this residence of yours here
is full of vital circumstances
varied and variable
incredible and banal
some
merely circumstantial
and others more relevant
more connected to your core
those that vigorously ring
your bells.
Running the risk of disqualification under the vague charge of individualism, since the world ends slightly beyond the reach of my skin and
begging forgiveness for my probable autistic egocentrism and my impulse to tell the truth the only truth nothing but the truth and, if possible, a bit more than a bit of the truth—which is considerably different from the whole truth, but amounts to a bit more than the hundred-and-fifty verse maximum for entries in the Youth Poetry Contest that “inspired” this preamble
here are my truths
I would like to show something
of certain noninfectioned, noninfected phrasongs
of certain expectanxiousness and honestuttering injurideas
—noncaved or with cavitieafflicted concavities
but regardless, nonvexing
of certain open pit operlyrications,
impeacefuling—ananesthetized—scribbling to my written screams
from this side of the shadows,
season diseason inferno, coldialects, pseudospring
verafreeze, stallion, wheel, cross
But for now, only
Warnings
Confessions
Several Clarifications, a colon:
(1st WARNING)
I warn
that I’m not a psycho
they call me “loco” but those who call me “loco”
are also called “loco”
just like people say “buddy”
—sometimes people call me “buddy”
and a real buddy of mine calls me “stranger.”
But, I warn You and Your Lordship
that, truly,
I am not CRAZY
despite labels
vulgarly referred to as diagnostics
that distinguished specialists
have applied to my case
moistening the glue of labels
with plastic sponges
their hands gloved in latex
—talcum powder while fitting on latex gloves
—denatured alcohol on plastic sponges
—the immaculate white of priest-like aprons
—liquid or conductor jelly on my temples or skull
(whether EEG or EST
good-for-nothing—)
that I’m not even that much more neurotic
than the average of my contemporaries
that I have a good prognosis
that I haven’t been lobotomized yet they haven’t given me a
lobotomy
that my computer still works, and enough
to write this
without misspellings, without spelling
mistakes
or punctuation errors,
(this part ends with a coma,) (,),
(1st CONFESSION)
I do confess though
that sometimes I have to clench my brain with both hands
that sometimes Great Thoughts and Solutions
begin to boil
accumulating pressurized steam in my head
swaying me into a bubble bath
—hydrotherapy, they call it—
or something along those lines
and other times
the world loses color
it becomes something like street pavement
someone paves my world
and everything is a path or a highway or a road
but never a destination
and I’ll die waiting to arrive somewhere
two steps back for every step forward
seeing it all gray gray
not feeling joy or happiness
and the sun causes well-known
visual distortions on hot pavement
and even when the sun sets
sometimes the pavement heats up
this doesn’t necessarily mean
it’s hot outside
the world
is like gravel covered in cement
in drying cement
and the cold can become dreadful.
And therefore, I confess
that in a sustained and continuous
and, despite all else,
thus far non-declining way
I will proceed to practice acupuncture
with small needles made of rice paper
if possible Smoking brand, elaborated
with the utmost standards of hygiene
by Miquel y Costas & Miquel, S.A.,
in Barcelona
easy and legal to find at laughable prices around here
—the guy with French papers no longer visits these latitudes—
or inhale joints
rolled in any kind of paper
sometimes bible paper, even
from Bible pages or books published by Aguilar
printed on that paper
—regardless, I have a pipe around here somewhere—
But it is imperative to acknowledge that weed
comes from cannabis plants
and that cannabis plants are not ANDROGYNOUS
and what works for this kind of acupuncture
with a hit or a drag, or a pipe
is the inflorescence of the FEMALES
the Buds
miniature poplar trees, cypresses, or laurels
tiny chromatically parsimonious Christmas trees
only brown tones, greenish-brown, shades of green
and, instead of those stupid metallically colored glass balls
exceptionally fragile
ovules—fertilized or, if possible unfertilized—seeds,
Seedlings
rich with lipids: birds love
them, and they leave
ugly stains on the parquet
if accidently stepped on
covered in a delicate vegetable and resinous material
that those involved in its consumption denominate
Cocoons
affectionately covering
the clustered seeds
in the inflorescence
of the plant
of the female sex
temperamental females, possessive and jealous
perfectly capable of complicating your life
with human females
—those entities called WOMEN
—What woman would get involved with a stoner?
asked the actuary.
—the bearded strict and vigorous mister actuary,
writer and retired stoner:
consider that
thanks to those small plants
you run the risk
of having the pleasure
of meeting gentlemen actuaries
almost always clean shaven
—exceptions always exist.
So that women
—or at least according to this mister actuary—
and justice, also a woman
justice that isn’t blind rather nearsighted
that suffers myopia and astigmatism and cataracts
justice that isn’t deaf, just a bit hard of hearing
justice that isn’t mute at all,
that recites a discourse
full of sound and fury
with a cold shoulder
and you begin to think
that despite
the lung-filled time wasted
on this sustained, long, lively
romance with the cannabinican female
the kind you don’t throw away overnight
perhaps this thing is a love song or maybe
you and I
who love each other so
should just break up
or in any event
we can’t go on like this:
the relationship can’t continue at an amateur level
one either becomes a professional or a FARSE
risking alcoholism or Optalidon addiction
(1st Clarification)
And here, I clarify
that it truly happened like this
because at the best moments
of the aforementioned romance
time has recovered
a bourrée durée
—a pastoral becoming, in case You or Your Lordship don’t speak French—
repeatedly offering
a world where not everything is gray
sometimes everything is alright, just o. kay
and nothing else compares to life, all rye
and of course grays subsist
between black and white
but secundum Mondrian white black and middle grays
are not colors:
the others are, the real
colors, all the others
and I can see them, and the things that sustain them
—I’m not colorblind—
and I can see people
and their clothes and their skin
their eyes and hair
and I understand and comprehend them (generally)
or at least, somehow
I get them,
enclosing them in any kind of net
with parameters and coordinates, finally.
Anyway, I do what I can
and despite occasional encounters
which are strange and brief
since they (generally) don’t
they don’t go out or don’t make it easy to take them out
of their small worlds of bearable tones
somewhat pastel, somewhat grayish
or more like television colors
of color TV or not
or agfacolor, technicolor, kodacolor, or whatever
of frankly plumbic tones
black blacks
with purplish bruise tones
nescafé coffee-brown or blood stains
—these also exist.
But this karma is beginning to last too long
“stoner” karma to friends, and some of you
weed smoker karma to them, and some of you
I’m different
less crazy and more NUTTY
a guy written printed or stained with different ink
and they ask me more and more frequently
if I’m a foreigner
because somehow
they sense that I see
that I have learned to see things in another way, I
can sometimes see structures and colors
the green in moss and police uniforms
the pink in twilight and roses
in lips, in glans
the red in Coca Cola, the red in the Soviet flag
the red in the North American Chilean
British French flag the red stripes in the
North American flag the red in Pepsi Cola
the primary blue that sometimes outlines white stars
the dark blue and light blue in Pepsi Cola
the navy blue emblems
in the Gendarmerie Corps of Chile
the light blue in the vans
used to transport the arrested or accused
and the electric blue in miniscule lights
flashes, commercials that unexpectedly appear before my eyes, for an instant
in the air clear, luminous, small
—this may be the strangest thing that happens to me.
The thing is that aside from the colors
I see other less sensitive aspects
of reality, less sensorial, in case it was misunderstood
—nothing too esoteric either
don’t over interpret what I say
nothing you couldn’t include in a conference
though lengthy
on these structures and herbs
maybe with diagrams, if You or Your Lordship like
if for whatever reason why
You or Your Lordship try to understand how I perceive
reality
without blinders, which never fit me well
indeed I developed the remarkable skill necessary
to gradually remove them
until I was left alone, only with two pairs of
photochromatic glasses, prescription -1 -1
fit at the Military Hospital ophthalmology lab.
However, since I always preferred
short stories and songs and hymns
and comics and lullabies too
I ended up memorizing a large portion of this material
—a certain Mr. León Felipe, Spaniard by the way
claims to know every short story
I clarify that I only know a good chunk
but instead can provide a hefty repertoire
of cruel jokes
and that I’ve chewed more than a few stews, my muse
having been completely versatile in style for a while.
But you can’t just see the motorcycle
or study disassemble and consider it
to start the motor and drive off
motorcycles cars and worlds
usually have owners
and everyone’s freedom is a serious issue
they can do terrible things
with their freedom
and with anyone’s too.
But I don’t blame cobblestone streets
when I trip—at least not always—
or the steering wheel or the brakes
when I crash again.
The fact is my soul limps
I don’t know how to drive, don’t have a chauffeur’s I.D.
driver’s license or
any kind of motorized vehicle.
So sometimes it’s necessary or preferable to move
as little as possible to avoid stumbling and crashing
since there is always or almost or almost the refuge
of utopian but possible futures—but possible!—
enjoying the air’s infinite capabilities over my bed
to tolerate beautiful and giant castles
that fly out my window
along with the smoke and CO2;
anyway, Don Nicanor
Mr. Parra wrote in I don’t remember which antipoetic opuscule,
“brilliant ideas come to mind,”
and as long as no one proves the contrary
I warn confess clarify
that mine are many more and more beautiful
—notice my rhymes.
But since my legs still work
I try to go out every now and then, and thus
you can see me around
bumping into the poles of reality
and I see stars and make stars seen
generally by looking away
as there is usually so much to see
behind below forward up
but I have no one next to me
with whom to walk towards the horizon
looking out over the horizon
like at the end of a spaghetti western
or looking at the church door
the outside light after sacraments and rituals;
and in the absence of nipples earlobes lips etcetera
cabañas filter cigarettes are good enough,
since deficient affection accumulates anxiety
—stress, for those who know—
I continue working on my slow suicide
of a homicide smoker who smokes in public
and in closed premises
—in vain, the whole world, or almost, smokes and smokes
and smoking waits for whatever the hell
the’re waiting for—if they’re waiting for anything—
meanwhile, such anxiety is always
on the edge of turning into anguish
into Angst, for the pedants and cultured,
into existential waiting which is neither apples nor oranges
nor cider ni chicha ni limoná, alleviated
with a swig of Coca Cola (“things go better”)
and “it’s the real thing” but its spark won’t ever set a prairie on fire
or provoke any holocaust
so we must fence off anxiety
or lyticise it (?) with ANXIOLYTICS
of which I can’t name any brands: no laboratory
will pay or give me discounts
and on another front
drawing defensive lines
with chlorpromazine pills
—cee pee zee, for novices—
to prevent the Nameless from landing
—those who upon settling in
can only be expelled
through epileptic electric or insulin-induced convulsions
producing more sleep than necessary
with many dreams that seem to undo some knots
in my nerves, uncover my plexus, diminish
the bioelectric insomniac activities of my two nervous systems
so as to not burst or scream
or strip in public
to not wander around crying
or sweating blood
which could be very hygienic
but
people don’t like to hear crying
and I can cry quite intensely
which would upset the neighbors
thy neighbor, more distant than near
because really, once again really there is
no one by my side
to accompany me on walks
or do some other things.
Should I say that Aphrodite has a grudge against me
or that I offer an easy target for Cupid
or that the latter monster ran out of my arrows
or that he’s a bad shot when it comes to girls
my doubtful indecisive reluctant
longed-for dream lovers?
Or should I say grandpa God destined me to solitude
which isn’t bad if you know how to use it
along with a lot of other things
many indisputably favorable
beautiful and gracious
(Cf. “Gracias a la vida” by Violeta Parra)?
Or should I say the moment just hasn’t arrived?
Hope is not always the last thing lost
and seldom is it lost definitively.
Do I need to clarify
that this is no song preceded by love poems?
But as for hope there is little to subtract
add the division
multiply it
et moi c’est un autre
and I is another
another in cursive
with these bastards, italics
for others not in cursive
different
(I think I already said so)
and a loner as well
or therefore
and I write and read
and write and almost never watch television
but from time to time
I read the news
—horrible experience, when you can
decode those messages
surrendering to those massages
for I am a lonely bachelor who writes
about bachelorhood and other topics and themes
a bachelor, and not too far off from
justifying the use of a
modified description
with the word /confirmed/ preceding “bachelor”
and the subsequent suspicions of meriting
other expressions and words
such as several that begin with the letter ef
and meanwhile I write while
my friends continue going crazy reproducing and committing suicide
investing in the good business of marriage
settling down tumbling overboard getting wasted
and their dreams become
more and more Sabatian
suffering more and more sometimes writing as well
sometimes not realizing what anything is
sometimes Nothing or almost nothing
and one writes—I write.
But I must warn that
I am not a young poet
though you could say I’m still young
and the supra mentioned actuary referred to me as “son”
—and he was only one year older than Jesus on the cross—
(even though a young girl
called me a “dirty geezer”
when I tried to find out what she was doing
out that late, on that corner).
Because what I write, the texts like or almost like this one
are not poems
unless poem is not written only with the /p/ of profound
with the /p/ of pristine, of pure, of platinum petal
unless
poem
is written also with the /p/ of prostitute
of pregnant prostitute, of propagating prostitute: puta madre . . . !
of frigid prostitute, of sterile prostitute (son of a bitch)
of difficult prostitute of horny prostitute of child prostitute
young lady miss or misses prostitute
—often persuaded—
with the /p/ of “pistol” more than a few poems have been written
but
what about the /p/ of a hundred Zen Poles to the head
—suck that Koan, damn it
and the /p/ of a Punch in the ass or the solar Plexus
or a Palm slapping a friend’s cheek
or the butt of a flirtatious girl
or the Pile of dirt next to an open grave?
even though, at least here, in Santiago de Chile
gravediggers use ladders more than shovels
since no Earth is left, only Tombs
niches of concrete in the General Cemetery
or has no one died on you lately?
or if they did
have you not fulfilled your Duties
to the Deceased bidding farewell at the Graveyard?
or have you not even gone on a walk
or a date or to study
at the Cemetery?
—excellent surroundings for all this;
and besides, cremation has become popular
and at that depth
the fuchsia looks like a chorus girl, a stripper, or a showgirl.
I warn, oh! that I’m not a poor poet either
the Muses have not blessed me
with somber poverty
of a tattered or waxy dark suit
with a torn collar and cuffs
and thin unattractive outdated ties
because the muses or the fairies or the devil
have determined that my beloved parents
make it their duty to support me
at quite a
modest, decent, and adequate standard of living within
the limits of their non-exorbitant pension funds.
Therefore, I am not a poor poet
although sometimes I walk around looking at
food, hungry, without a cent in my pocket
although I failed to take from that whorehouse
on San Camilo near Santa Isabel
a girl from Chillán who was new on the scene
since I had no money
and not being Catholic
I didn’t think to rescue
an image of the Holy Virgin
venerated next to the safe box
or take out a notebook
since I had no money
or buy new books
and because I know about poverty, which is no pose,
I fear and respect it so as to gargle and warble
the word
or trumpetly describe its gargoyles
my voice resonating upon reading the subsequent Ode
—the audience usually gets excited:
bad conscience
in the audience?
But fundamentally
because I’m not a poet unless being a poet
is being a clown
that is being a spectrum
—a healthy but ghostly spectrum,
a tormented soul, a spirit
that is being an inappropriate misfit
not unappealing, with an extensive lexicon
correct diction and syntax
in his slow speech
and excellent exam scores
periodically required
to enter the University
—sorry, to enroll—
at least when
evaluating the illicit degrees
of verbal aptitude or
one’s mother tongue
that is being simply someone
with an absent gaze
one of those people who suddenly dies a tragic death
surprising no one
and that hardly anyone hears of
and for now survives
with an intimidating smile
and with a barely insinuated sadness
or some profound and hidden true kindness?
gently moves a few simple souls
that is being
an itinerant pedestrian
whose path is interrupted by
menacing gangs of sleepwalkers
all and every one of them sound asleep
dreaming the same dream
doing their best to look like a poster
humming songs by Lucho Barrios or Peter Frampton
or trying to sing stale chauvinisattas, off key
or even, once in a while
for disciples determined
to follow in my footsteps
those I leave or draw
while on the lookout for
some guru or true Master
able to fix some leaks in the Spirit.
And meanwhile I write, but
now that it is completely clear
that I’m no poet
must I clarify
that I’m not a young Established Treasure
Representative of the New Literary Generation?
—you can find several of those around
don’t think these entities don’t exist in flesh and blood.
But I must set the record straight
that I hope that, come hell or high water
even in the eventual case that I begin writing seriously
or serially
no one ever consecrates me
so that you would have to voluntarily fast
to adequately assimilate my production
and I also hope no gullible friend
poorly versed in the needs and activities of the mester literárico
will consider me some sort of
Chilean Literary Prodigy
I only hope you listen to me from time to time
when I have something to say—it doesn’t always happen—
I hope you perhaps
glance over
a piece of paper, printed, mimeographed, typed
photocopied or hand-written
because I have
to
write, from time to time.
In any case I warn
that I do not have a great future ahead
that I might
pack everything and leave
voluntarily
this gathering of phenomena
where I am like a fly in a spiderweb
stuck there after the spider
was hit with a broom and sprayed with insecticide
even though people who really commit suicide
reserve their plans
with a near-religious silence
so they say they say.
I have warned that I’m not a poet
and finally proclaim that although a bald spot
is already aiming for my skull
I have plenty of hair in my armpits and on my pubis
and on my face and on my chest and around my belly
and hair is said to
like nails
keep growing for some time
after you die unless
you insult the mother of a guy packing
a flamethrower, or
prior collusions with photographer friends
a warning to freelance graphic reporters
and a filmmaker with materials
I stand once and for all
with my legs open and
a pair of rubber pants, sealed at the bottom for fishing
which I still keep
filled like a hot water bottle
but not with hot water, rather with gasoline
over the flame of liberty
located, if You or Your Lordship are not aware,
on the terrace of a stone hill
which the indigenous native aborigines
have denominated for centuries “Huelén.”
but I do warn
I have no hairs on my tongue
Postscript:
Take the rest
to the chest;
take the words
as absurd coolness.
