I promise I have things poems for this 80 days thing, I've just not been bringing my notebook with me to the internet cafes...estoy atrasado as they say. It's coming!!!!!

Summer in Late December, Valdivia (80 poems in 80 days #1)

I think I keep my mind Octobered:
I smile seeing an orange,
a burnt red, that deepening flood.
It's an early September I want now:
the beginnings of darkness;
the chattering of birds, not teeth just yet.

They say here in Valdvia,
the earthquake and resulting tsunami
sunk homes into the river.
And there they stay, still intact
because of the alerce they're made of.
Heat here is never bad -- the wind
sinks you into an autumn mind.

And what's an autumn without sinking?
What's a summer without underwater dreams?

Isla Huapi

José and I went up a sandy hill filled
with different plants, though
the one that was most distinct
to me was yellow. We climbed
the hill, him grabbing bits of yellow
all the way, slowly letting them drop
like bell-shaped sand, and
at the top, all below was yellow.
José's brother is sick, threw up just now,
actually. Earlier José lit a cigarette
and blew smoke into his brother's hair
crowwing him several times --
to chase out the bad spirit, his mom said.
He was telling me about a Swiss girl
that came by and started to fall for him,
but was conflicted as to her travelling
plans: "The answer's clear," he said,
"you either go & chao, or stay
where your heart is."

On The Anniversary of Pinochet's Death (i dunno if i like this...opinions?)

12/12/07


The anniversary date was on Monday.
I didn't see or hear a thing.
Oh this capital city loves to cry
murder sometimes, blood of the laborer,
blood of my brother, but not a thing.
Though I could be mistaken.

A huge group of police water cannons
were stationed on the Alameda
but it was as if no one wanted
to make a move. Or maybe I saw all that
before the planned chaos. That
might've been what happened:
I saw the tension but at its peak.

I won't fully understand why
the missing will remain missing.
It's a barrier I've not yet the experience to break.
Stuck, maybe, between what I see
and can't see after I passed it, or before.

Las hojas que faltan (Now Knowing More) (revised a bit)

Knowing full well my own story
before I knew a thing
he laid in me a want
that sunk my arm
like a smallpox vaccine scar.
It bloomed.
There's a universe of ache
and desire in me
that I cannot itch out.

Later he dropped me.
Hung glass
under my feet.

Now, I'm terribly careful as a glassblower,
afraid of breaking
any piece of anything
and releasing the torrential heat inside it.

Copa Simple

Happiness is a guilt wrapped package.
I say this as a joke
but the things are going right now
with this empty glass of what used to be
an ice cream coffee float...
well, happiness is a
stomach expanding cup of pleasure-guilt.

And yet the afternoon's not-so-hot wind
is wonderful enough against my face
and this ice cream parlor sits in the most perfect shade
wrapped by passing noisiness
so that maybe happiness isn't guilt-ridden
but simply wrapped like a layer cake
or an ice cream pop or maybe
I've just eaten too many sweets lately
and in my happiness I've begun to day-dream --
and is that so bad?