Six Poems

Easy as that

Now that I’m about to die, no kidding, run of the mill, no escaping it, I’m reflecting on what I haven’t learned, what needs to get done (not that much interests me right now): and how much must yet be borne: sudden satori for example (ach) after sticking it out for so long struggling on and on and (halfheartedly) on.

Nothing comes in the mail, the internet is dead, not a wisp of the boundless plenty. Brief, the season of Death. Sudden. A long defile then a narrow inlet. Conventional wisdom, primary colors, counting long enough, one to ten, a spare elemental series: no effort to speak of, truth be told (no resistance, nothing one can do), for passing to the other barrio.

From barrio: ovarian (barrier) — easy to tell where these puns are heading: Death tells nothing, no one else is telling, there’s nothing to be told. It’s wearisome to waste your time on fantasies of an afterlife when there’s so much still waiting to be read. Don’t squander your energy, the hell with priests and philosophers, shysters and quacks who make our heads spin.

The bull by the horns, opportunity by the last strands of its thinning hair, scoring a nice cut from the heart of the problem. Or, to put it in Christian, Babelish, or Hebrew, carpe diem. Skip your mandalas. A sutra functions like a kitchen tool. The highpoint of the morning is a whiskey (double), bar snacks. Eating and drinking, in moderation: now that your wallet allows for more, your body holds you back.

He tosses me out. I give him my hand. No point in us falling out now. He’s way ahead of me in the race towards Death: in the end he beats me by a nose. There, beyond the line, he plants his foot, and we toss ourselves from the window. Note: nothing jostles us; there are no shadows; not even sails on the high seas. They close our eyes (how lovely it would be to see my Beloved’s hand sweep down my face like a darkening veil): the curtains are lined with lace.

Behind the lace lie nine concentric circles: where could they have gone? For three lousy days? Don’t count on resurrection: no exceptions for the likes of us. Behind the lace curtains: aromas, aurora borealis, the regular sound (the unyielding tedium) of a transverse flute, silver tone holes. A hole, a hollow, an urn. Good thing the rain and damp round here barely touch the ashes. Out, thought; beat it, kick it from your forehead. And in its place, an object (not of meditation) of our situation (no making the sign of the cross) grasping the object (call it x) bringing it to your mouth, easily (a pear) identified: juicy, peeled according to the (meditative) techniques that we learned from the nuns.

Así de Sencillo

Ahora que me voy a morir, en serio, común y corriente, sin albergue, considero lo que me falta por saber, lo que hay que atender (no hay mucho hoy por hoy me interese): y cuanto queda por recibir: repentino satori por ejemplo (aj) tras un largo muy largo estar ahí dale que te (desganado) dale.

No llega nada en correo, internet está muerto, de la mansalva, ni hebra. Breve estación la Muerte. Repentina. Largo desfiladero, y una rada. Ideas recibidas, colores primarios, la serie suficiente del uno al diez, rala y elemental: ningún esfuerzo de mucha monta, en verdad (no resistir, nada que hacer) para irse al otro barrio.

De barrio, ovario (barrer): fácil entender adonde conduce la paronomasia: la Muerte no cuenta, nadie además lo cuenta, no hay nada que contar. Harta perder tiempo con fantasías de ultratumba cuando hay tanto pendiente por leer. No desviar la energía, al diablo curas y filósofos, leguleyos y matasanos, mareándonos.

El toro por los cuernos, la ocasión por el moño exiguo que le queda a la calva, y a la madre...