Don't you bother asking why. There is math to explain it, then there is common sense to let it be, and should you need any other thing there is empathy. At the end, you have no saying on the matter for I happen to be as stubborn as a man crossing the Pacific on a wooden raft. Listen, it is not about proving something, no. I, I just want a place to sit where I won't feel lonely in the summer. You know, this sort of place with swings and slides, sunny as hell at midday, but with enough shade to read after breakfast. There could be bison grass all over, peppered with patches of daffodils, and dadelions at the edges. People would drop by either early in the morning or at around 5 p.m., so the brightest Sun would be all mine. I am sure my method to bottle up sunlight is going to work, so I will have something to send to her all the way to her cabin next to her loch. You see, she is away for an indefinite amount of time. She is trying to vacate her mind from all the tedious vicissitudes of a life as a museum sculpture. She says she cannot stand all those eyes looking for imperfections as to, of course, there are imperfections on her carved skin, but they are too obvious for people to notice. She did not choose the loch, mind you. When she finally sailed away, on a wooden raft by the way, she for some reason ended up in a turmoil of fog by night, and when it dissipated she saw green, dark hills wrapping her sight. I needn't tell you it was open sea no more. She reached the shore and took home in a brown ample cabin she found empty. Well, there were some birds living in the cupboard, but that's a whole different story. Either way, the sunlight may give her warmth and smiles, and her thoughts of me will come across the land, and if they make it here, perhaps they can grant me some patience. You might still wonder why, my old friend. If it is good enough an answer, if it makes you sigh and silently walk away, I can say it is because it would be a crime not to do it.

Stop saying why, please - it hurts my eyes.



Sitting at the back of a greasy-spoon Chinese restaurant, eating shrimp, rice and string beans, drinking pop soda, one does not seem to be in the best place to think of philosophy, yet it seems adequate - shiny and cheerful days like today are of another kind of feather. These words I so grinningly despair to type are as sticky as the Chinese rice: they won't let go of my palate, slowly suggesting a sweet flavor, surely to leave a greasy aftertaste.

Humans are composed of a finite number of attributes, simple in essence and composition, complex in conjunction with every other attribute, yet perfectly predictable in terms of simple logic. People often claim they know how such or such will react in a given situation under specific circumstances, and that so can be applied to past or future events since present is a continuum or the latter becoming the former. I am not to disprove them, for there is congruence in their words, but they have no clue regarding the depth of such belief. Say, I happen indulge in certain sort of drink on Sunday afternoon. If the afternoon is hot, I am likely to have a couple of beers. As for a cold one, straight mezcal seems to be the choice. My peers will undoubtedly assume the choice is marked by the weather outside and by the fact that I am drunk, and nobody appears capable of denying something so simple. However, there are quite a lot of occurrences which they are overlooking, like the mathematical probability of my consumption of alcohol due to external factors (like a visit from my parents, in front of whom I do not drink, or like my whimsical nature which can simply dictate I am not to do something just because). The synapses and endorfins in my brain may be far greater a factor than whether some beverage matches the climatological conditions, but they look irrelevant as to they are not apparent. Still, the weather is of some incumbency, as well as the memory of my house stinking of barley every Sunday afternoon my father had his friends over for a game of domino.

So, as finite as my attributes is my time on the matter, for the Chinese woman at the counter is signaling it is time to close.


Is it the alcohol that which drives warmth to my cheeks, to then run straight to my trembling lips, unable to utter the slightest sort of phrase, of whisper, of moan? Is it that I can actually feel shame, embarrassment, hesitation? Am I that irresolute? I do feel like running out to aisles and aisles of books, which drip thoughts of absence, which drain this flame away, which dictate I am a rational animal. Yet, I stay indoors, looking at these laughing walls, which look down on me and say, you are helpless, you are tiny, you feel yourself blush, and whether you fucking endorse ir or not, you love being sunk in this lustful anguish, bowing your head to disgrace, and as if it were a mantra you tell yourself there's nothing else you want like this. Go shower son, for the day is coming, and it is ok to doubt you will be able to make it.



De caminata por la calle principal,
Sintiendo al calor rebotar de las hojas de los árboles al pavimento,
Exhalando bochornos,
Los cuales suben por las pantorrillas hasta la entrepierna,
Y de ahí al alma y la consciencia,
Corriendo por la frente, el pecho, el vientre y el sexo,
Derribando pudores,
Mientras uno toma firmemente la mano del otro,
Y le piensa, No me dejes, no, nunca,
Tú no sabes lo seco del viento si uno se atreve a andar a solas por la avenida en un día como hoy.



It would be so easy to tell you everything will be alright; that flowers won't dry, that you and she and he will laugh here and there, that those lovers in the park will hold hands day in day out, that our vinyls won't get scratched, and that the sun won't set behind the clouds. I won't do it, no, for you must see the landscape both dead and blooming, so you hear what I whisper, so you hear crickets chirping, and you invite me to rest my head on your shoulder.

There seems not to be reason to drop you these lines, you understand, since my anguish is great, and my thoughts are misguided, my sight ever blurred, and this hope is absconded; yet I sought for a reason not to do it, and found nothing under my bed, in my shoes or my pocket, also asked the good vendor what he thought 'bout the matter; if your heart says so, be so, said he from the counter, got nothing to lose, hence why do you ask me?

I do write to you, but I am a coward, so it is blind poetry the most I can type, leaving spaces blank, not addressing you, thinking perhaps next time there's rain I could be the first drop that reaches your skin.