Writing is not cathartic, even though its feeling of release is present; it is not enlightening, however, it provokes critical thinking; it is not, above all, entertaining, nonetheless it transports you. I write in order to rationalize interiority, to catch emic experiences with a net. Everything, however, revolves and remains inside.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

memoria y reacción

A punto de volver, it strikes me. Que ya no pertenezco a ningún lado, que ya no le debo nada a nadie.

Y cuánta la desolación al entender que el ritmo se ha perdido - un corazón que recuerda vagamente una imagen de algo pero encoje los hombros cuando uno le pide memoria y reacción, tal corazón es poco más que un musculo. Y a nosotros nunca nos bastó pensar en el corazón como un simple musculo.

Se sabe: para un corazón nuevo, volver es lo
más fácil, ya sea por hábito, nostalgia, o por responder al recuerdo de la sensación del impulso. Para un corazón averiado, volver es lo más difícil, porque al fin se ha tomado verdadera consciencia, consciencia tan asentada que se convierte en parte del (tu) universo:

lo perdido ya no volverá,
lo herido ya no se cura,
lo agotado ya no se resuelve

Por eso no les creo a esos que dicen haber sido
heridos -y claro, al ser ellos quienes hablan, pasan de 'haber sido' a 'haber estado' - pero luego supieron volver - y claro, como son ellos quienes explican, pasan de 'poder' a 'saber'- a amar costumbres, historias, países, personas. Por eso no les creo a esos que dicen haber sido heridos pero luego saben cómo volver a amar ideas, procesos, valores, finales. Yo todavía estoy en 'ser' y 'poder'. Y ni siquiera puedo definir 'amar'. Por eso no les creo.

Friday, October 12, 2007

Some Months Ago I Felt It Coming (Revised)

Let it cook


Under pearly gazes


Burn new forking paths of

a(n/o)ther/ intense eye-contact sublime


Let it sweep


The after whatevers (whatever!)

By giving away, give in 


It is always your touch, whoever fondles my skin

Or forever to your lips, no matter whose I’ve brushed mine with. 

Have you acted the same?

Inconsistently amazed

By glitter

Over everything

Because of immediacy

To (l)earn nothing

Like me? 


Overcooked, burned out, and swept under.
Back to,
Away from,
In a matter of weeks.
Acceptance is a luminous beam.
For the time being, at this time, you have chosen me.
The feeling storms towards to bat me in the face (.)

With a kiss

I anchor

The choice, 

I return

The blaze. 


(previous draft)

Let it cook
Under pearly gazes
Breathe new forking paths of
a(n/o)ther/ intense eye-contact sublime
Let it sweep
The after whatevers (whatever!)
Nobody cares
What the name behind the face is
It is always your touch, no matter who fondles my skin
Or forevers to your lips, no matter whose I’ve brushed mine with.
Have you acted the same
Inconsistently amazed
By glitter,
Over everything,
Because of immediacy,
To (l)earn nothing
Like me?
In the present for the time being, at this time, you have chosen me.
The feeling comes rushing towards to hit me in the face (.)
With a kiss,
I anchor
the choice,
I return
the blaze.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Who to blame (2nd draft)

In the morning, when I fling the alarm
I wonder who to blame
Or how to bend the day
There’s always some noise that disrupts the flow
Of my mind trynna breathe
And go through the million things
That I gotta do today and next month and in ten years
The more that you do
The more life that you lose
There’s a pressure that smothers, suffocates everything
And if you make it worse
Becomes irrelevant
At this point…
I don’t want to create excuses for myself
Or anybody else.

My mother says that in the years to come
I will feel the pain
Crawling down my neck
She says 'trust in God but don’t have faith in people'
And I have to laugh
Cause it’s their faith that have crea-
ted God, Mom.

But Dios,
I don’t want to justify my faith
Or challenge anybody else’s

But sometimes I wish we hadn’t thought the concept up in the first place.

Still, I have no space to question
Or maybe a little, but not enough
To challenge and change what’s grotesque of
A reality that is not fair enough
Always a fact, a statistic, nature
To some bullshit excuse that is not enough
That doesn’t suffice to answer
The lack of humanity that we show among us

It doesn’t suffice to answer
Why we’re brutal with everything that has been created for us.

Friday, August 10, 2007

You fueled my desire
You gave the spin to a life that couldn’t start until it found you
Ignored for the better part
Of a plan that was up to par but not quite to my own values
Engine that fires my heart

I tried to complain to him about the fact that I couldn’t find you

(And I couldn't find you)

Monday, July 23, 2007


I just need One, I reminded myself...

And so I waited for not many

not amazing

not life changing

or everlasting

but a merely manifested

simply observable

and -above all- genuine One.

Friday, June 15, 2007

Wishful Thinking

As far as I'm aware of, I'm the only person I know who is so morally selfless and so fake to himself that I cannot wish something for myself and ONLY for myself, even when blowing an eyebrow into the air or my birthday candles.

Let me explain.

I'm an advocate of ideals. Unlike principles, ideals aren't necessarily the base for subsequent ideals, and they certainly don't care to address what some object should be like, how it should work, etc. Ideals aim for ultimate perfection, with no other purpose (necessarily) than attaining it.

An ideal: World peace.

I'm a man of ideals, but not of very many principles, which in other words means I have a lot of conceptual truths about myself and the world, but not a clue about how to live by them, act for them, or even how to respect them.

Comes a birthday candle.

My heart or something that acts like it instantly begins a feast of self-indulgence:

"I wish health for myself and my loved ones, that I get that job that I'm aiming for, that nothing bad...-"

Like a thunder, like that lover from 2 years ago who should be over you by now but instead cannot help but reappear like a bitter bitch, my conscience (my mind?) rushes in:

"What about world peace, Phineas? What about all the unfairness in the world, and the people who have never celebrated their birthday, who've never even had cake - those mothers who are loosing their children in non-sensical fights, wars or robberies, as you blow those candles..."


All this happens in the split of a second. This is usually the time where everybody around you is done with their singing and clapping, has given you a second to perform your part of the ritual, and mutter:


This is exactly when I have to say, "Give me a second. I'm thinking." I suspect this is what happens to everyone who takes too long to blow their birthday candles: A sudden moment of unbearable pressure and excitement, where all your selfless and selifsh Wishes gallop to the forefront, rushing for a chance to take the spotlight. I tend to think that this is a chance for that little person inside of us to really take a moment and reaffirm who we are.

Right there, I've defeated the purpose of the ritual of Wishing.

In my case, like I said, the fight is between my very immediate neccesities and sending positive vibes to this seemingly unfair universe (shouldn't these too be part of my immediate necessities???). It's too huge of a difference in scope, and usually my birthday Wish ends up being a forced mash-up, an almost incongruent mini-speech that may include sentences as ridiculous as "I wish for the well-being of my family and friends, as well as for those innocent souls in Darfur. And when I hoped for inner peace for myself earlier, I also wished it for humanity as a whole."


Wishes, of course, should be spontaneous and free of conscience. They should come from the gut, and be sent to all dimensions with convincement. Personally, next time I will not apologize, rewrite or argue with myself when I Wish. Que así sea.

Thursday, June 14, 2007


Step. Step inside.
Plant a kiss on these eyes.
Stop. Stop it or.
Fuck, I've never felt more alone.
I've never felt more controlled.

I've never felt like winning it all.
I've never felt that I couldn't at all.

Tried to stop me
but they couldn't
and won't
because they apply simple measures to a complex mind
and a simple tactic won't prevent the crime.
Just a glimpse into the past and I remember who I was.

So I recall what the Chinese lady at the museum once told me:
Nothing matters if your inspiration is concentric.

The devil made a much finer job at trapping my soul:
He knew, and didn't stutter.
He hushed, and didn't panic.
The devil knew me well, and waited
For me to go back,
hungry happy high angry nappy nigh and every now

and again we both get bored with the world because no one wants to come in
and take a chance.
It's too much pressure for simple minds, and an unnecessary alibi for complex ones.
It's hard to digest.
Sitting outside, it's never sunny enough
for the Devil and I,
it's never fully enough,
as we sip our cup of tea.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

No! to Maxims, Aphorisms, Sayings, etc.
TODAY: The means/ends justify the means/ends.

The means don't justify the ends, or the ends don't justify the means.
But whose means are we talking about, and what ends are we defending?
And what means are we applying, and whose ends are we trying to attain?

It's not only about whether one values outcome over process or vice versa, is it?

It shouldn't be about morals or rationality, certainly not ours'.
It should be about what's best for the animal species that is being exterminated, or the natural resource that is being exploited, or the children and the handicapped and the poor and the "different" that cannot defend themselves.

We should see through their eyes, and act. Not think, not feel. How irrelevant. Simple empathy, and even simpler but effective action.


What about us? What happens when we are the ones at a crossroads and we are the victim, the oppressed?

You might ask.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

If anything

If anything new to aspire to
Or anything better to choose from
If anything more fragile than a day
Or anything more momentous than breathing
I would understand how it is that we are suspended somewhere in the universe
Clenched in Dragon’s claws that loosen to a simple dream.

Monday, June 11, 2007


Who is the sun shining for if we are all locked up in schools, offices, homes and prisions?

Saturday, June 09, 2007


"I think you have a world of your own that doesn't include me", me dice él.

Y tiene razón.

Es que to be a writer you have to own more behind(inside) than what meets the eye, more than what the conscious life festers or lets out. Mejor dicho, to be a writer is to have more in your soul than what you can express, or act upon, or deny. It is to live in contradiction, or in the very least, in hyperbole.

And you must not care about these conditions. These circumstances are to be explored, suffered, savoured, but not denied and not ignored.
No, not ignored.

Plus, a mí sí que no me importa nada tener coherencia. Nada.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

I cried twice in a day

I cried for many reasons twice in a day.
For the innocence lost;
The knowledge of understanding there's a life that can't be rewinded and relived;
I cried for the loss of spontaneity;
knowing that the life I lead now is more exciting than the one I was stuck with but that in reality it's that other life with some minor adjustments that I would want
or it is this very life with some minor adjustments that I would want;
I cried for friendships lost
guilt, blame, actions and ommitions aside
for the loss of those friendships;

Tear my heart. I will start reminiscing this that will lead me to that which I'll relate to some other thing until one memory attaches itself to a person I had long forgotten about, and then everything about them, about me with them, about our dynamic, and what we went and didn't go through together rushes into my mind like a gust of wind that cannot but follow its route.

I cried for my parents
whom even though I make happy and proud, I have let down many times, with this being the ultimate, more lasting blow of them all: Knowing that they are getting older far away from me, without me. Knowing that my absence causes them more grief than I know.

I cried for the lies that I live which make me push foward and live happily
for the pill and the stone
for the grade and the bonds
for writing and faking
Saying goodbye to my therapist was like leaving that stranger I once met at a bar and with whom I inexplicably shared a painfully intimate and warm conversation that ended just as randomly, with no phone number in hand and no recollection of anything but


His name, I can't remember. Pero gracias por ayudarme a entender the course I carry within.

Saturday, May 12, 2007

Txt -

Txt - West to Jorge (12/11/05)

Jealousy is an effort to keep a love all for oneself, but also to keep unity of a lover’s image, caught in the dream, and prevent reality from co

rroding this image.
- Anais Inn

Txt - Jorge to West (12/11/05)

So in a way if you are jealous of him it means he is not really worth it. Love sees sharp, hatred sees more sharp, but

jealousy sees the sharpest for it is love and hate combined. – Arab proverb

Txt - West to Jorge (12/11/05)

Anais has something to say – maturity is first the shedding of what you are not, and then the balancing of what you are in relation to the human being

u love; and allowing the selves of that person which are not related to you to exist independently, OUTSIDE THE RELATIONSHIP.

I like that proverb.

Txt - Jorge to West (12/13/05)

The heart is deceitful above all things.

Txt - West to Jorge (12/13/05)

Every cell that goes to that organ is fighting for supremacy

The triumph of a heart… that gives up

Txt - Jorge to West (12/13/05)

When in doubt, give… but ur heart? That seems a bit much, even if in reality it is nothing.

Txt - West to Jorge (12/13/05)

Its nothing until it’s in the palm of a stranger

Txt - West to Jorge (12/13/05)

I kinda love you dolo it’s funny

Txt - Jorge to West (12/13/05)

One rule will be that we cant send multiple messages until the other answers back

Txt - West to Jorge (12/13/05)

There has to be rules

Txt - Jorge to West (12/13/05)

Btw I’m leaving the country tomorrow for a month. We’ll talk when I come back. Happy holidays!

Txt - Jorge to West (12/13/05)

Explain dolo

Txt - West to Jorge (12/13/05)

I don’t love you the person just ‘dolo’

Txt - West to Jorge (12/13/05)

I’m going on a Disney cruise tonight for a while too so ttyl txt stranger

Txt - Jorge to West (12/13/05)

I still don’t know what dolo means, but my brain says bye and wishes you have fun cruising.

Txt - West to Jorge (12/13/05)

We made it up as a symbol right? For like the anonymous whatever uh… well I’m fucked up gnight!

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

Likethew i n d

Below he converges
He diverges, above.
And when he lets himself
get wrapped up in nothing,
like the wind he builds upward around its center
and so shreds what passes through the wall of its eye.

I count the forces
To which pressure declines:
‘Let me command without
the burden of your words’,
he says, ‘let me see myself as human, un-ruled, and
watch as I displace what you’ve settled at land’.

If stable then stable
Today, I let it flow.
But when he covers fast
The rest is unready,
and I can only hold it back so much so more
...to feel the current like before.

The book I read I remember. He looks, I say
Friction at the base will slow it down, but it will not change the direction of its heart.
He forms, passes, and disperses. He understands.

My love
I let him go, dry and motionless, to sleep.

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

Happy Anywhere

The screamers, bible preachers give the ear the will to kill
The moaners, not addictive but still a sleeping pill
The hyperactive mirror a hippie’s nightmare
Who gives a damn? I can be happy anywhere.

Subways are the throats that swallow the minimum wage
Parks are the acid jokes Pavement tells its friends
I ate an apple that was modified with Tupperware
Who gives a damn? I can be happy anywhere.

Spoil me
And in the meantime claim
I’m happy
While I intoxicate myself dying
I graffiti the city and shout
I need to hush the splash to enjoy a meal
But this is happy in the city and that’s fine with me

If there’s a green I’m not going, it will turn grey soon
That’s why I like it here: the rush is heavy but I get home soon

Some places borrow my scent and I borrow theirs
Some people borrow my love and I borrow theirs
Misterio! Life can feed on things that aren’t even there...
Fire the animal and be happy everywhere.

Spoil me
And in the meantime claim
I’m happy
While I intoxicate myself dying
I graffiti the city and shout
I need to hush the splash to enjoy a meal
But this is happy in the city and that’s fine with me.

Monday, April 16, 2007

On meditation

There has to be some higher merit,
a beam of a more profound victory,
of a more earthy war won over,
in meditating on a public bus, on your way to work,
squeezed in between dozens of pre-occupied strangers,
case in hand, with a sensory overload that cannot be
shunned by simply closing your eyes
and concentrating on Breath.
It has to be more complete, as divine, more real than sitting in ardha padmasana
on dewed grass, in the middle of nowhere, in robes
or naked, with the rising sun
and the smell .f clear .xygen
and the sound .f maanasa
and the touch .f guyan mudra
filled to the bone () with the taste .f consciousness .

Saturday, March 24, 2007

Games (i)

Games? I love them.
The time I’ve spent playing them...
! Oh yes another eye-contact intense !
Have my number
Call me call yooou at what time
I’ll be there
No, don’t, you don’t have to but why is he not returning my text
where is he? I need, need, want, all for myself
eyes, focus! on.me.
? I wish I’d cracked open ?
Cherubically, oh yes, I dare you (to)
Lay down the rifle.
Drop the knife.
Us to die, indefinitely.

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Centuries spent
for progress,
towards progress,
so that we can continue to despise our lives and others',
in different ways
but with the same intensity
as yesterday.

Monday, February 26, 2007

Leaving body

What's the highest demonstration of spiritual highness you can perform after dying?

It is clear to me that funerals are sick, an archaic pseudo-ritual that in truth symbolizes that ever present disregard for our flesh that most have always shown one way or another. Funerals are also about perpetuating the moaners' sense of loss and longing... hardly an act of love from the dead one.

Some say that a conversion to ashes is not only poetic but also serves to give everybody a sense of closure. We as spirits definately say goodbye to our body, which swiftly runs through a river or travels across mountains. They, as moaners and lovers, know that, symbolically at least, you're free and one with the world... sans the fungus.

But what about donating your body to science? One could think this is hardly a spiritual act, and shows more love to oneself and our imperfect kindreds than Nature or any other Higher power. But at the same time, only when you truly get to that amazing certainty level of knowing that one is undeniably, absolutely disembodied once dead, only then could you truly understand what donating your body to science really means.

In a way, this action is of a strength of character that would scare more than one.

Moreover, putting your body to further use once its biological clock has ceased to tick may seem too philantrophic, but in reality it could also talk about a strong faith in Humanity, ie. that humans' knowledge can , through the examination of your corpse, help others. That your useless, stiff corpse could be useful to somebody one last time; helping future visitors of the Earth to live better.

Romantic? No, but highly spiritual... perhaps.

Monday, February 05, 2007

The land we knew so well. Since the morning I’ve been asking how we gonna make the last thing in our lives the most important one, the single most impellent one. Together we start climbing, these rocks are meant for fighting; we kiss them with our fingers, all, our flexors giving us their all.

This is much ado for nothing, these are lovebirds burned on acid, but I can still hold your hand, I am willing to still hold your hand. 'Together we are something, something more than nothing', You say but I can’t tell You say, but I can’t tell.

I don’t wanna know the history of anything that you hold dear.
These are the rules by which to submit and never ask for anything.

To sleep you need it all, the feast is now a yawn, the farm has let the piglets out, I knew you wouldn’t leave without stabbing in my heart the words that would suffice to deepen this resilient doubt that you couldn’t do without. They never leave me alone with my Bombs…

It wasn’t until some years ago that the fear cut our soil like a plow, it turned it over like it had no real worth. It left me partly uncovered, left me mostly.

I needed patience long-lasting, but you kept on asking to leave the land we knew so well, and amid my confusion your body kept pushing, too holy to not feel again. But I wanted to say:
What if our lives are spared? What if what comes is the opposite? A relative opposite of despair? Yes, I meant to say: Why if danger never come like we expect it? I meant to say: What do you wanna spread if we can’t prevent it? What do you wanna censor if we can’t oppress it?

To win you need us all.but I can’t hold this gun no more, I should’ve stopped this long ago. They never leave us alone, they never leave us alone with our Bombs.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Come back to your body with a full, heavy inhalation. Fill up your lungs with air, start to feel Life germinating inside of you, nurturing you. Begin to move your fingertips and toes, slowly. Slowly. Nobody is rushing you. With another deep inhale, extend your arms behind your head, and stretch your spine. As you exhale, relax. Your eyes remain close, confronting utter voidness.

This is, ultimately, all you have left. Not love, not abundance, not absence, not even ourselves. At the end of the day, all we have is our breath, the air that visits, pullulates, and leaves us after a passing moment.

Stay like this for a few moments: controlling nothing, wanting nothing, needing nothing.

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

Mi hermano muerto: Todo lo que hiciste, lo hiciste por necesidad.

La sociedad es idiota: Siempre estuvimos y estaremos mejor, pero nunca estamos mejor.

Lo abandona la inocencia: Herir y sanar vale más que no conocer el dolor nunca.

Su estilo de vida es una cuestión de actitud: Tenés todo para morirte fuerte.

Vuelve, vuelve: Perdón por la culpa, es que te tengo siempre presente.

Nadie te da nada: Nacimos para robar y obedecer, para probar y merecer.

Voy demasiado rápido, demasiado a trasmano de todo. Y ahora, ¿qué hacer?
Ya no quedan disfraces.

If it speaks to you...