jueves, diciembre 23, 2010

Discurso de José Revueltas a los perros en el Parque Hundido

Compañeros canes:

Aprovecho esta concentración
para tomar por asalto la palabra
y decirles mi desdén, mi resistencia, mi furia
por la vida de perros
a que se les ha sometido
y que ustedes aceptan
sin rebeldía
con una larga, peluda y roñosa
cobardía entre las patas.
(Animación en el parque.)

Compañeros perros callejeros:

¿Van a continuar luchando unos con otros?
¿Van a rodear el hueso,
el pobre hueso conquistado,
con la cerca de púas del gruñido?
¿Y lanzarse a dentelladas
contra el que también vive las manos
del hambre cerrándose en su cuello?
Ah, mis pinches, mis bonitos perros:
¿Qué pasó con la táctica?
¿Dónde sus olfateos de dialéctica?
Cada uno de ustedes ha acabado por ser el ámbito
en que sólo las pulgas están organizadas autogestivamente.

Algunos, ya los conozco,
pretenden luchar
para que el número de Sociedades Protectoras de Animales
aumente al mismo ritmo
del crecimiento demográfico de los perros.Canallas.
por el mejor trabajo
de los veterinarios.
Unos más
porque las vacunas antirrábicas
se repartan a pasto.
(Murmullos de aprobación.)Camaradas perros:Ustedes lo saben mejor que yo.
Lo espío ya en sus ojos.
Hay que hacer a un lado la perrera egoísta
o el árbol
por la individuación humedecido.
Desenterrar el hueso colectivo del atreverse.
Armar una jauría
darle existencia histórica a las fauces
y soltar las tarascadas
en el número preciso requerido
para el triunfo.
Yo lo he soñado así.
En mi puño, mi fuero interno, mis lágrimas clandestinas
yo he pensado que llegará un día, camaradas,en que por fin no sea
el perro hombre del perro.
(Ladridos entusiastas.)

Mas quiero algo decirles.
En esta lucha.
En este joderse.
En esta pasión
no vaya a ser que otros les coman el mandado.
No vaya a ser que los perros guardianes.
No vaya a ser que los perros de presa
o los perros policía.
No vaya a ser que los canes cultivados,
los que cuelgan su rosal de ladridos
en medio de los jardines.
No vaya a ser que los advenedizos,
los que sólo hasta ahora merodean
a sus propias mandíbulas y dientes.
No vaya a ser.No vaya a ser que aquellos,
cuando ustedes destruyan este mundo,
se erijan en los nuevos mandarines
chorreantes de colmillos.
Y que ustedes se queden
sufriendo nuevamentesu existencia de perros.
(Aullidos exaltados.)
José guardó silencio.
Bajó del montículo que le servía de estrado.
Y una insinuante perra que atravesó la calle
le dio en la madre al mitin.
a la pálida flor de la justicia,
a la solemnidad del crepúsculo
y a la conciencia de clase
que, fugaz,
se había encendido
en esta efímera concentración
de perros callejeros

martes, diciembre 14, 2010


Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

* Originally published in Crayon (2004)


(A phone call).
Receiving a Phone Call
(Long Distance Phone Call).
A phone call with no bodies
(Just the Long Distance Sound).
A phone call made on the subject
Of the arrival of the American Body.
A phone call made by the Mexican President
indicating to Castro
(the Cuban Horse)
Indicating to him (Fidel) he has to leave our country (our body), when the American Body, The American President (the Son) arrives into our land | enters into our flesh. (Castro has to leave). He has to leave his place so another body can take it. He had to leave so the other body, the American one (the Son) could enter into our body, our sexual body, the political one.

Remembering we have | A Body |
by way of LDS
The way the body feels
When the mind
And the voice
From one language to another.

The way it’s going to feel when we
(“The Mexicans”)
switch into English.
The way our mind and body
Disconnected when such a Language Event
(to us).


Applying torture.
That’s an easy way
to find out
others do have
(a discourse on) pain.
Applying torture
Declaring war to the body
Of the Other
(The Afghan | The Zapatista)
Destroying another body
That’s a good way
To find out
We may have a body too.
A discourse.

Being a woman.
Moving to Juárez.
Moving to Juárez.
Being a woman.
Getting a job in a maquiladora
(Ford | Samsung | Matsuchita | Qualcom)
Moving to Juárez.
Getting a job in a maquiladora.
Being a woman.
Getting rapped
by a serial killer
or a death squad.
Copy cat. Quote.
(800 women have felt that
in the last 10 years
In Juárez)
Becoming a body.
And then being found
in an empty lot
in the outskirts of the city
with a torn T-Shirt
that says:
The Golden State”.

Feeling stressed.
Experiencing our body
To the Sickness
The New World Order
Gave US:

Going to Tijuana.
Because Tijuana is
(according to The Simpsons)
The happiest place on Earth.
And it is the maquiladora town
Where 75 five per cent
Of all television sets
Are produced.
It is also the most crossed border in the world, and the place where thousands of Americans, hang out every weekend, the place where:
a) They have Fun
b) Feel beautiful and loved
and C) In control.

(Mexico is the place where Americans feel they really are

Language exchange rates
(Body Surplus)
Violence is the American Way (A quote)
Violence is the American Way (A quote)
And we cannot help but to be Americans in that sense.

We are all Americans now
(even the French).

Being a man.
Moving to the border.
Finding a pollero.
Waiting for the right moment
to illegally cross.
No helicopters around.
No trucks.
Hating the sun.
Being a man.
Moving to the border.
Finding a pollero.
Walking [to what’s called the Other Side].
And then, getting beaten
by some American I.N.S. Agent
Who needs to feel his body
as the body of a Real Man.


Another attack.
That’s too
Another step
To remember
We still have
A body


(The pleasure).
(Through the pleasure)
The pleasure of uploading
into the Internet
Without our bodies
(The Relief)
The relief of entering
(The Final
Common Place)
Uploading ourselves
into the Internet
Without our bodies.
Our bodies that hurt so much
And viewing
And buying
With credit cards the image
(just the image)
(of the bodies)
(of the bodies of the others).

Restrictions apply.

lunes, diciembre 13, 2010

A bad trip

Did you ever consider that LSD and color TV arrived for our consumption about the same time? Here comes all this explorative color pounding, and what do we do? We outlaw one and fuck up the other. TV, of course, is useless in present hands; there's not much of a hell of an argument here. And I read where in a recent raid it was alleged that an agent caught a container of acid in the face, hurled by alleged manufacturer of a hallucinogenic drug. This is also a kind of a waste. There are some basic grounds for outlawing LSD, DMT, STP - it can take a man permanently out of his mind - but so can picking beets, or turning bolts for GM, or washing dishes or teaching English at one of the local universities. If we outlawed everything that drove men mad, the whole social structure would drop out - marriage, the war, bus service, slaughterhouses, beekeeping, surgery, anything you can name. Anything can drive men mad because society is built on false stilts.


So let's get back, more or less, to LSD. As it is true that the less you get the more you chance - say beet-picking - it is also true that the more you get the more you chance. Any explorative complexity - painting, writing poetry, robbing banks, being a dictator and so forth, takes you to that place where danger and miracle are rather like Siamese twins. You seldom go wire to wire, but while you're going the living is fairly interesting.


LSD can flake you too because it is not an arena for loyal shipping clerks. Granted, bad acid like bad whores can take you out. Bathtub gin, bootleg liquor had its day too. The law creates its own disease in poisonous black markets. But, basically, most bad trips are caused by the individual being trained and poisoned beforehand by society itself. If a man is worried about rent, car payments, time-clocks, a college education for his child, a 12-dollar dinner for his girlfriend, the opinion of his neighbor, standing up for the flag or what is going to happen to Brenda Starr, an LSD tablet will most probably drive him mad because, in a sense, he is already insane and only borne along social tides by the outward bars and dull hammers that render him insensible to any individualistic thinking. A trip calls for a man who has not yet been caged, who has not yet been fucked by the big Fear that makes all society go. Unfortunately, most men overestimate their worthiness as basic and free individuals, and it is the mistake of the hippie generation not to trust anybody over 30. 30 doesn't mean a damn thing. Most beings are captured and trained, totally, by the age of 7 or 8. Many of the young LOOK free but this is only a chemical thing of body and energy and not a realistic thing of spirit. I have met free men in the strangest of places and at ALL ages - as janitors, car thieves, car washers, and some free women too - mostly as nurses or waitresses, and at ALL ages. The free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it - basically because you feel good, very good, when you are near or with them.

An LSD trip will show you things which no rules cover. It will show you things not in textbooks and things which you cannot protest to your city councilman about. Grass only makes the present society more bearable; LSD is another society within itself. If you are socially orientated, you can probably mark lsd off as a "hallucinogenic drug," which is an easy way of getting off and forgetting the whole thing. But hallucination, the definition of it, depends upon which pole you are operating from. Whatever is happening to you at the time it is happening does become the reality - it can be a movie, a dream, sexual intercourse, murder, being murdered or eating ice cream. Only lies are imposed later; what happens, happens. Hallucination is only a dictionary word and a social stilt. When a man is dying to him it is very real; to others, it is only bad luck or something to be disposed of. Forest Lawn takes care of everything. When the world begins to admit that ALL the parts fit the whole, then we may begin to have a chance. Whatever a man sees is real. It was not brought there by an outside force, it was there before he was born. don't blame him because he sees it now, and don't blame him for going mad because the educational and spiritual forces of society were not wise enough to tell him that exploration never ends, and that we must all be little shits boxed in with our a, b, c's and nothing else. It is not LSD that causes the bad trip - it was your mother, your President, the little girl next door, the icecream man with dirty hands, a course in algebra or Spanish superimposed, it was the stench of a crapper in 1926, it was a man with a nose too long when you were told long noses were ugly; it was laxative, it was the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, it was lemon drops, it was working in a factory for ten years and getting fired because you were five minutes late, it was that old bag who taught you American history in the 6th grade, it was your dog run over and nobody to properly draw you the map afterwards, it was a list 30 pages long and 3 miles tall.

A bad trip? This whole country, this whole world is on a bad trip, friend. Bet they'll arrest you swallowing a tablet.

I'm still on the beer because basically, at 47, they've got a lot of hooks in me. I'd be a real damn fool to think that I've escaped all their nets. I think Jeffers said it pretty well when he said, more or less, look out for the traps, friend, there are plenty of them, they say even God got trapped when He once walked on Earth. Of course, now some of us are not so sure it was god, but whoever he was, he had some fairly good tricks but it seemed he talked too much. Anybody can talk too much. Even Leary. Or me.

Charles Bukowski

viernes, diciembre 10, 2010

Áurea Centuria

Encontré a una chica de Áurea Centuria
traía una grapa de cocaína
me preguntó si yo venía de Marte
y yo si ella provenía de Venus.
"Déjate de mamadas morrito"
fue lo único que dijo.

Después de todo
estoy pensando abandonar los mundos virtuales
tomé la decisión
y la comuniqué a mis amigos más cercanos.

Áurea Centuria no quiere que tengamos contacto
"somos incompatibles" -dijo;
pero no me retiraré a causa de ella
es un sentimiento más profundo
voy en busca de un mundo más plausible
no imaginativo
no las tonterías que escriben los poetas iletrados
como Áurea Centuria
una de las últimas poetas formadas en la vieja escuela
donde el conocimiento lo dividen en pedazos
llamados asignaturas.

Me alejo de Áurea Centuria sola en el monte
fumando marihuana,
creo que me hace falta una mujer para vivir.

miércoles, diciembre 01, 2010

Yo soy un niño común

yo soy un niño común
redondo como el aire
tragando espasmos
con árboles en mi cabeza
y ángeles acuchillando mi garganta

yo soy un niño común
despotranco de genitales
rústico prolífico
sin cómo sin porqué
como la lluvia de la mente

no continuaré escribiendo
moviendo de vitrales mis ojos
mis pestañas anuncios de neón
un circo ya vuelto abecedario

continúo brillando

medido en aguardiente
continúo brillando

bajando de los caballos
continúo brillando

y dando vueltas como los diamantes
brillo brillo

me escapa el conocimiento
y continúo brillando
como el universo que perdió toda información

después de la datástrofe
continúo volviendo

y me acurruco
creo que me creo morir brillando

soy un témpano de roscas que cae de un colmillo del cielo
poema y poema
basura y basura
cierro los ojos veo una mancha en mi ombligo
el brillo de mi estrella
entrado en tantas olas
escucho tanto
que no domino mis orejas

como barquitos de papel mi cuerpo busca cuchillos
caen mis dedos en las guillotinas de la vida

ya no me quiero morir
ya no me quiero morir
me resisto cortándome los dedos
por cada año
los dedos caen en un cuenco
estoy parado sobre mi calavera sobre mi polvo sobre mi mano

mira soy un niño común
jup jup jup

montando las palabras del alba
con mi máscara roja
no hay nada que pueda hacer
que cabalgar hasta que llueva el fuego de la noche
y deje de despertar

y entonces
se reirán los ríos de mi vida
y yo me reiré de los ríos muertos
y la vida se reirá de todos

y mi cápsula se va a quebrar

porque bajo el fuego
donde todos se queman
las risa es como el viento
como viento en un corazón

soy el aire
quiero regresar a ser el aire
el manto de la muerte