viernes, 10 de agosto de 2012

One may sit on a couch and wait...

One may sit on a couch and wait. Sip a thought, maybe. Sleep on a wire, perhaps. To figure out a transition, to tear up a coincidence or a dove. Possibly. One may flip a coin and get surrounded by mystery and unborn thunders and letters. Not to give a fuck about anything or inconsolably weep one's lungs out. One may, perchance, to strike one's head on a golden fish memory and live in it like in a fishbowl for a moment, just the very moment of the travel of an origami crane to the trash can. One may just shut up one's fucking mouth and breathe, breathe like if it was a way to beg, like if it was the only religion that a man can prove to his many gods. One may sit on a couch and declare the wait one's intimate god.

There's a tiger sleeping in the back of my neck...

There's a tiger sleeping in the back of my neck. Sometimes it purrs; others it talks or walks in its sleep. There are moments when one can not know if it is dreaming or is dead: because one can not know anything for sure. I sleep its dream when it rains. It sleeps mine when I'm aware. We both know about each other's drift, we both know we live the spare instants of a sparrow.
Lo que nunca se dormía del todo, era una cierta idea de magnolias. Aunque los árboles donde ellas vivían hubieran quedado en el camino, ellas estaban cerca, escondidas detrás de los ojos.