In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

  • Matter (selections)
  • Marcelo Morales Cintero (bio)
    Translated from Spanish by Katherine M. Hedeen and Víctor Rodríguez Núñez

When I see the dust in my room floating, I think of the maxim, sink my face into it.

We humans have built what's real,we've idealized it. In the bar, at the bar, my perception of time, my life, the ceaseless search for love.That's what it's about, I tell myself, from one failure to the next, once more in the void it produces.On the street, in the car, wind and lights on my face, passing lights, passing life, movement.

One feels the world. You're inside, I tell myself, in a fragment things are defined, to set foot in the circle has that meaning, dust floats, light. In the coffee cup I don't see the cup I see the hollow.

I live in pain. Cross the streets in pain. The past lasts as long as what you can remember of it. The past is minutes.

The world and the people stamp their energy on you.Energy in memory and feelings. Energy in sensations. The world feels, contamination, that is what's human, puddles in the street, Chinatown. Your eyes look over what's real, flutter from one second to the next, [End Page 34] your body, from one second to the next, your mind, that's being alive, one place and then another.

I get up and see some spots in the mirror. Nature of the return. Love at its ending point is the void, keep that in mind, I tell myself. I get up in the desert; I change the sheets.

I'm afraid of the light in the glass, air coming in through the window, dust covering objects, the sensation, the ceaseless search for sensation. A metallic spoon on the edge of the table, a broken chair—there's a presence here. What's poetic supplies a consciousness amid the days. I go downstairs, I go upstairs, my eyes have the opening. There's no meaning but there's a symbol, time running in what's real, consciousness.

I don't know where those who die, those who loved you go, I don't know. The memory of you will be erased. The soft sighing of her skirt when she'd close the door.

I climb the steps, feeling the handrail, touch the metal of the door latch, make the key turn. Nothing exists between the living and the dead. On the patio light falls half red, yellow steps. Life behaves unconsciously. This is the world, matter, matter and nothing more.

They all run in the same direction, the more they wander off, they all go there once more.It's raining. On the glass the water's discourses grow complicated, a light, everything spins around zero, the center of the world where you've always thought. [End Page 35]

The river, not the sea, has a destiny. The world, a fragment of my eyes. Dirty columns, exhaust pipes, smoke, sky, a corroded brain. Gray matter.

What's poetic tends toward the supernatural, time's passing. God like a florescent light bulb. You walk in the night and think: The air is heavy with bacteria, life is to be exceeded. The spider weaves a circular problem, At least for a moment the insect will be a warrior assured of its victory. Things in time are things in space.

Matter only exists in the present, persons. She always waited for me in the café when evening fell. I'd get out of class, cross streets to see her. Space separated us not fear. Love isn't here to be forgotten. Sometimes I remember her, sometimes I forget.

Things coming and going in life, another side to cross toward this one, an ugly butterfly, lingered motionless. You are witness to other deaths. The key to this work is in its conception. All this matter that matter thinks and feels.

In life pain and pleasure are instantaneous. My species came to atomic knowledge. Havana—heat—August. Our greatest fear isn't death, death is our fantasy. Dirty papers on the streets. People, sea...

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Additional Information

ISSN
2327-8307
Print ISSN
0163-075X
Pages
pp. 34-38
Launched on MUSE
2020-01-02
Open Access
No
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