«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

full of Love.

© juan carlos vasquez

 

Biography

 San Francisco and other poetic dreams...

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