LA TRADUCCIÓN DE UN SUEÑO

To the illuminating M.L.King

I
Death had forgotten my first best first verse. I realised it was just that.

You have the little the meaning of nothing. Death doesn´t have an idea of what life
could mean. Me either. Death has the little the meaning of nothing. I am here waiting
next step of time. And here I am, me my own defence. Then you realised error &
wickedness make no difference between me & I.

Cause th.is-is-that BEyond.

Come & have a look from here.
Your game is the game you can´t see it losing from you.
Your life is your game of whispering or jailing of speeching.
Your life is the game of failing or missing of ending.
Life is the same phrase one then another,
I´ll repeat it,
Life is in the same phrase one & two &

death

& the sea is –I know- who makes to blue the sky.

I am walking down the road,
& ETC is the age of poems,
-however this is too much saying-
& hour is the great need of the hour.

His arms snaking faster to the East. We ate the ape of Jericho. We are the ape of Jericho
far from the tree of night. With you are we now three who fair Jericho. Stars blooming,
the flower sun
Night
Old Fruit Ripen

life.

& the sea is –I know- who makes to blue the sky.

I am walking down the road,
& ETC is the age of poems,
-however this is too much saying-
& hour is the great need of the hour.
II

Dear,

i need not pause to say how very delighted i am to be here this morning to have the
opportunity of standing in this very great and significant pulpit and do i want to express
my deep personal appreciation for extending the invitation

First of all:

Nothing but an echo (that’s what we tend to admit), I said it & I repeat it, nothing but
you. You, sited wherever in the neighbourhood, rolling & rolling death motels, you, the
Northless, down heat streets to The Black Home, your ungrammatical profundity is a
loom going forth & back...
...something lost beyond the way, a trail wound in a circle long, long
circle, etcetera You, O Muse, sing yourself along or whatever.
I know you know the answer to no question formulated.
O, Spirit, the non-unattempted procreation.

Secondly:

Say first other then and other, repeating steps in nothing. Footprintsfootprintsfootprints.
When reality broke up into silence /Should we rape reality?/ HIS word over the house,
bright blank between two names, by his side, bright as blank as between as two names
as, (let the word be our hero) her eyes of cotton, hurting closed eyes, by his side the
moon, (let the past be our past) did you see that moon, Moon´s Cotton’s Blood, did you
see that moon MOTEL MOTEL MOTEL Lo! No shadows, no glory, a red line
awakening, the way home town. Better to have t... Tiding things never tided; given that,
how could he exist either? So should it be remembered, as a constant th.ing of be.ing,
will/ his will/ will be faithful. We should desire to forget poets, politicians, to become
that human meat beyond the see sound, before things a man should never
bla bla bla
know.

Thridly:

O, God, inspire me a mouth biting down the road. Order necks across the land, bleed
white blood, words –my duty liver, keep awakening through a revolution, in the back
door. Duty calls to epic battles, epic leaving battles. Are the lungs full of earth, is the
empty grave of wind. In summer you will see them reviving for their destiny. And you
hope to be blood-and-thunder, Blown House. In the back door the scenery/ the SELF.
Where is my neck? Nothing gives you the rest. Where is my sWord! Wisdom and then
that voice. The silence of heart keepers. The groan of undone memories. The bell ring
into clear water fallen.

–Alas Lord, why hasn´t you forsaken us?

Yours faithfully.
This is a dialectic image being raped by the human ring.
III

La traducción de un sueño es la voluntad a la que le falta un disparo mi cerebro sigue

con vosotros corderos de este destino no abandonándoos mi pulmón lleno de heridas
bienvenidos al lugar donde mi odio no es nunca más una rosa os saludo con todas mis
armas resonando sobre mis hijos del enterrador ante el poema la palabra eres el vecino
de lo inexistente preparados

El arcángel con nombre aguarda la promesa su regreso como la pólvora un tú por un

verso convocado de panteras la palabra humedece el lago de un instante sin acero
fragmenta un deber que el rifle abandona la bala quietos firmes aguardando sostenidos
al héroe que calló la traducción al pecado de una sonrisa parecía solo en barro traernos
la desgracia o el poder que es casi beso de la bala pero la montaña de probetas a cuyos
pies alguien se arrodillará una hora que no habrá muñecas únicamente la firma que trae
el lazo

Ahora quién es el lobo solo con estilo la palabra futuro sin inmutarse y no tiene miedo
que ha muerto el enemigo amor mientras se reparte el vino alguien caerá esta noche y
no seré yo desde lo alto del cambio posible un rizo posándose el asfalto

Somos así tal que una ciudad rodeada de vivos el experimento de un verbo hecho tierra
mi señal tiene la marca con todo el pecado en una aguja heredero del insomnio y del
progreso