© Juan Carlos Vásquez: «San Francisco and other poetic dreams». Translation by Keith O'Donell

Third floor, Tenderloin, Golden Gate Bridge, Way.

Third floor

I Tie and Untie myself
and count to three,
it is incomplete,
and an empty longing,
full of symbols that mean nothing
and I create heavenly memories
that soon demand of me,
cutting my time in half.

A heavy sleep arrives before midnight
and I wake up tired in the morning
between visions,
and no one answers me to start again
as though it had a meaning,

I wake up, and do things routinely done
by those living,
just a pulse with no name
it looks like we are laid out
there are sounds that frighten.

While in the streets with my brothers,
when in the shadows of the night,
just looking at numbers
I feel sick and hurt all over.

Going up and going down
as children play in a slide
below there is death
pushing and shoving,
foaming at the mouth
they all cheer
below they are all gray,
then purple,
there is no sun.

As I descend from the third floor,
it begins my coming together
to solid ground.

Tenderloin

Dead walking,
nude crawling in a love parade,
the return of the ambulances
without roads,
when I am close to a blissful high
I long a lot for
caresses,
to help me fall asleep
it is night,
six months have gone by
between incenses over graves,
and a celestial restlessness,
visions of jupiter compacted into pipes.

This face cannot be mine
the face of Sunday
at noon.

If it wasn't noon
and had I something to do
these damn ambulance sirens
would not torment me
with their regrets.

How do I recover with punches
the street's quietness,
how do I destroy with an axe
the remembrances from my veins
without diving in a tub
to masturbate.

there is a horrible smell of beer,
so romantic yet so pathetic,
There are ideas of escape, and
lasting words.

if I had a dog his barking
would convince me but I have no dog,
only nights find I joy in contempt,
and instead of I protest
everything induce me
into a terrible and sorrowful laughter.

Golden Gate Bridge

Jay with a rope, Keith with vodka
We have a friend
that invites us to makes pavilions out of gold
with fish and seaweed, it helps the family to fly,
as the dreams fly
and to wake up from a cesspool
in the back side of the shade
under a naked Trinity the birds,

that vast landscape
and it brings forth a relief.

See
it will teach you everything
without useless words,
if you want, from top to bottom
with a suit
and
drinking Gin and Tonic.

Jay with pills, Keith AA
we have a friend that it has thousand friends
that they have gotten to flap their arms
in an effort to fly.

Why it springs wings,
unfortunate garlands
served with with oceanic agony.

See,
look around
to the grate
granting to desires its whims,
with strong hands, flexing the knees
while contemplating sailing a boat.

Jay, Keith, you and me
We have a friend that
Unite us
that show us the way
where there are a lot of escape routes
the fury of the wind
without losing the fall,

4 seconds, 75 miles an hour

Way

After I Jumping,
I May regret and wish to return to the platform,
Too late Falling, F a l l i n g.

After falling, A whip splits my spine,
all that I was in life is but a silhouette marked
by a chalk outline.

And what if I shot myself ?
The Index in its depth
feeling all the weight,
these spasms like dread discharges
to turn out the light, a night of brains blown out.

And what if it were a noose pulling tight around my neck?
The air leaving, the eyes bulging, blood bypassing the head,
memories calling,
painting the face red as a distorted Carnival Clown.

For this last trip
dragging with great effort
the fragile combination of nerves
urging in a swell of spasm in exact coordinates.

For this last trip
the toung uncoiling like a serpant
an afertaste on the palate
of life's last juice,
the veins bursting like fragile glass
scattering throughout the Universe.

To sleep forever
dreaming of life
a deaf and dark night always arrives
plundering the body