ghosts flaunt aspen twigs threaded through the eyes
they are shy but able to steal the first
words you say entering the city
they store them in the places shunned by the authorities
dusty garrets stinking underpasses and sleazy banks of disappearing rivers
for the fishy poets of displeasing generations to discover
duty free stores are brimming with them as well as traffic lights all around
they hate the smell of tobacco but like to smoke rolled-up newspapers
and drink cheap wine from used plastic bottles in the parks
no matter how much you love them they have no use for verbs
they can tell your future though if you wish to know



When collective memory becomes
A blessing to the soul of a sinner
Chasms of light one by one penetrated
By an anonymous scream
Doorknobs and keyholes are nuisance
Unbearable more than the last
Trace of a cloud to an innocent eye



Something always hides between the wind and the voice.
There is always a mask under the face.
The soul of a red-haired mannequin quickly loses itself
In another one, impossible just a moment before.
The dirty shell is supposed to shudder, as if
Being eaten by a tiny transient cloud.
The flesh of a tree giddily catches wisps of cold.



North Korean cosmonauts
land on the dark side of the Sun
every week. It’s the usual. Poisonous
weeping cities float in the sea. It’s
disgusting. Angels sign all the fish
at the outskirts of the sky.


The space between the lake and an intoxicated rodent
Or between two books on the history of clouds hidden in the dormant grass
Devours humongous laughing heads of our ancestors
Heroes of world war minus twenty eight
So please, my friend, join the feast of limping birds in the wasteland
Enjoy the smell of burnt feathers



It’s incredible how thieves can talk to tap water
Or hoodlums thrive on discerning spirits. My classmates
Used to write a long piece of advice to God, hiding
In one of the school restrooms from the teachers.
They thought He didn’t exist and were certain
It was bad not to exist even for Him. They filled the air.
The wicked talked too much back then, just as
They do now. Meanwhile I was reading
Crime and Punishment during the math classes.
Soccer was a religion. A pedophile walked the streets
Impervious to beating and mockery, a prophet,
The glory of his generation broken by the war.


Amidst the silence of everything they cannot name
Ambiguous and languid
All kinds of angels and flies darker than the void
Retreat to the holy planets designated as galactic dumps
Always dormant, numb wings shoved into the rifts between the junk and the sky
They become unbidden guardians of the cavities above and the hollow below
Broken rays of cold stars bring a lack of purpose


Wearing the masks of petrified beasts,
three women ride a claustrophobic rat that
says hi to every high-heeled shoe they pass by
ahead of all the stones of the sun.
Heavy birds fall into the fissures far above,
only to reappear under the feet of the creatures whom
doors and windows of the air prevent from letting out.
The women count each other’s teeth and bruises.


There is something between nausea and headache
you can count on, like an old inane joke.
Music ends, like a toilet paper roll.
Snakes and freight trains finally pass by.
But herons jaywalk across the streets,
wings ditched by the air. (Feel free
to cause damage to this image. Erase it
from your mind at your convenience.)
A sturdy policeman on the beat diligently copies
one of Ella Fitzgerald’s scats ‘til someone
politely asks him to shut up. Feel free.


A few hundred hieratic frogs
frolic in the canned third heaven,
giants among saints and buddhas.
Miles away vacant seashells
and open manholes yawn like
goddesses too lazy for genocide
and other capers. Gospel
singers collect the sounds that
can pass even through middle-class
ears undamaged.

who wouldn’t like being a wine cork?

no one remembers the songs
left in the shops and offices
closed for the night or beggars
crushed by the eyes of the coins
they think it’s just air in the briefcases
passersby carry
and the void of the water pipes in
abandoned buildings it is
finally free like the liquids
and breadcrumbs untouched
unnoticed by jesus


Neighborhood children teach dogs to
speak Spanish. Animal
control guys catch those savant mongrels
and crucify them
on the vacant lots. They chant
Gongora and Lorca
all the way to Hades, dreaming
of sausages made from
the flesh of aliens.

{after the comments on shunning}